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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




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BUTTONWOOD 

AND 

OTHER POEMS 



BY 

L. F. BITTLE. 



FIRST EDITION. 



Here, reader. In their metric flow, 
Ar'» treasure4 thoughts of^long ago. 



INDIANAPOLIS, IND. 

OCTOGRAPHIC REVIEW 

1904. 



T 



.^ 



bP' 



LIBRARY o* CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

FEB 18 1904 

V CopyiigM. Entry 
CLASa a,- XXc. No 

7 J o X H- 

doPY 3 



Copyrighted, 1904, 

BY 

L. F. BITTLE. 



PREFACE. 



It is not without misgiving that I allow these verses 
to be printed in a book. With a few exceptions they 
were written many years ago as a relaxation from 
severe study; and now as I revise them for publica- 
tion they do not please me as they did when I com- 
posed them. But the critical mood is not the poetical 
one, nor is an author always the best judge of his 
own work. Besides, as time passes, our tastes 
change, and many things which delight us in youth 
become insipid in old age. And if we make good use 
of the opportunities afforded us, our standards of 
excellence rise higher and higher, though they nev- 
er reach absolute perfection. 

Poetry appeals to the sensibilities rather than to 
the intellect; and when a person by means of verse 
reveals his inner life, he can reasonably expect little 
genuine sympathy except from those whose experi- 
ences have to some extent been similar to his own. 
His readers must put themselves into the mood in 
which he writes, and forbear criticism on his style if 
they would fully enjoy his stanzas. 

Many of these effusions, selected from a much 
larger number and here printed in permanent form, 
are records of real life. Others are merely pictures 
of fancy. Still others have only a personal or local 
interest. All of them, such as they are, I offer to 
my friends, and especially to my beloved daughters, 
Mona and Linnoea, in the hope that my unpretending 
stanzas will leave in the mind of the reader some 
thoughts worth remembering. L. F. B. 



CONTENTS. 



Buttonwood, 
Ellemwold, 
Autumnal Musings. 

1. Radnor, 

2. The Birds, 

3. The Landscape, 

4. The Seasons, 

5. Meditation, 

6. Nature, 

7. The Moral, 

8. Consolation, 

9. Aspiration, 

10. Childhood, 

11. Rambles, 

12. A Subject, 

13. Saint David's Church. 

14. The Critics, 

15. Cowper and Milton, 

16. The Graveyard, 

17. The World Unseen, 

18. M. J. B., 

19. Truth, 

20. Mount Pleasant, 

21. Conclusion, 
Lilly, 
Tredyffrin 
Queries, 

Too Late, 

Death, 

Good Night, 

June, . . - 

Enlightened, 

A Prayer, 



1-42 
43-48 

49-51 
51-52 
52-53 
53-55 
55-56 
56-57 
57-58 
58-59 
59-62 
62-63 
63-64 
64-67 
67-70 
71-72 
72-74 
74-77 
78-81 
81-84 
84-87 
87-89 
89-90 
91-92 
92-94 
94-95 
95-97 
97 



100 

100 



Day dreams, 

Mary, 

At Even, ... 

The Glass of Faith, 

When I Am Gone, 

Across The Stream, 

The Arbutus, 

Semper Ora, 

The Angels, 

To J. H. B. , 

To M. P. D., 

To B. C., - - - 

To B. B., - - - 

The Richmonds' Home, 

The Early Dead, 

Lines On The Funeral of W. R. 

The Smithy, 

A Proem, 

The May Queen, 

"Not Death But Sleep," 

Love, - - . 

To M. J. B., 

The Hunters, 

A Wish, 

Fortune, ... 

ToM. B. B., 

The Rain, 

An Epigram, 

Christ Triumphant, 

Content, ... 

Brandywine, 

For an Album, 

Millie, 

Hope, 

Centennial Hymn, 

Centennial Poem, 

To Hygeia, 

At Mother's Grave, 

The Glory of tl.e Lord, 

Spring, 



101 

101-102 

102-103 

104 

105 

105-106 

106-107 

107 

108-109 

• 109-110 

110 

111 

112 

112-113 

114 

115 

116-117 

117-118 

118-120 

120 

121-122 

122-126 

126-127 

127-128 

128 

129 

130-131 

131 

131-132 

132 

133-134 

134-135 

136-137 

138 

139-140 

140-141 

141-144 

144-145 

146-147 

147-148 



Lines for an Album, ... 148 

To the Woodthrush, - - - 149-150 

A Morning Concert, ... 151 

Expectation. .... 152 

Sunshine, ..... 153 

A Reproof, . . _ - - 154 

Memory's Bells, .... 155 

Autumn, ..... 156 

Life, - 157 

Deceived, . . - . . 158 

Meeting and Parting, - - - 159 

In Vain, 160 

The Baptism, .... 160-162 

Croton Pond, - < - - 163 

A Fragment, .... 104 

Great Valley Church, - - - 165-166 

Linnsea, • . . . . 167 

My Baby, 168 



BUTTON WOOD. 



A CONTRAST. 



Dear Buttonwood, I love thy shade, 
For sweet contentment fitly made; 
And when I walk the crowded street, 
And mark dull care in most I meet. 
Or cross at noon the dusty Square, 
And swelter in the fervid glare 
Of sunshine from the August sky, 
I long into thy shade to fly. 

There would I lie beneath the trees, 
And hear the droning of the bees. 
Or listen to the rippling flow 
Of waters in the vale below, 
Or watch the thrushes as they glide 
Among the bushes at my side. 
Or overhead the gambols see 
Of blithe and noisy chickaree; 
For any sight or any sound 
That in thy solitude is found, 
Is picturesque or musical 
Contrasted with the city full 
Of all the senses hold in dread, 
Or baleful planet ever shed. 

Oh, not for me the marts of trade. 
Those scenes which man himself has made! 
Where Wealth and Poverty reside, 
And shame each other side by side. 
Where thieves and beggars most abound 
In courts and alleys all around, 
Where harsh extremes of life we meet 
Which ever way we turn our feet, 



BUTTONWOOD. 

Where daily we are forced to grieve 
O'er wretchedness we can't relieve, 
And where we view, with burning soul, 
Injustice we can not control. 

Pretentious mass of brick and stone, 
Built up for sordid Mammon's throne, 
The city stands and welcomes in 
Each folly, vice, and grosser sin. 
There artificial ways abound, 
And useless etiquette is found, 
And spirits, yeai^ning to be free, 
Are slaves to Fashion's tyranny. 
The finer feelings of the heart 
Are blunted by the cruel art 
Which selfish customs, silly rules. 
The mutual work of knaves and fools, 
Have introduced to help us hide 
Ourselves behind suspicious pride, 
Or, what is often tenfold worse. 
Our lives to poison with a curse 
Of Vanity, Truth's wily foe. 
That veils in falsehood all below. 

The thing ycleped Society 
Is often but a mockery 
Of those warm instincts of our race 
Which prompt each one to take his place 
Amid the gathering of friends. 
And share the pleasure that attends 
Informal interchange of thought 
And gentle courtesies unsought. 

Amid the fevered life we lead, 
The things our natures mostly need. 
The quiet hours from business free, 
Companionship and sympathy 
Of those whose friendship, full and true, 
Brings out our better selves to view, — 
These are the things we seldom find 
But others of a different kind, 



BUTTONWOOD. 

Approved by Madam Grundy's voice, 
We see presented for our choice. 

We gain admission to a clique, 
If through the wonted means we seek, 
And then are privileged to greet, 
With stilted manners, the elite. 
Then at the door to make a call, 
And hear a servant from the hall 
The "Not at home to-day" repeat, 
And bow us back into the street. 
Or present else, by present grace. 
In glaring parlor — horrid place! — 
We meet with others who have come 
To see the folks now all "at home" 
For entertaining every guest, 
And showing off when at their best. 

Thus in such parlors meet we them 
Whom rules of etiquette condemn 
To spend the hours in pleasure's search, 
That always leaves them in the lurch. 
When these soirees we look right through, 
What sorry sights are brought to view! 
Cards, dances, gossip, promenades. 
With brainless fops and silly maids 
As leading actors in the scenes. 
While very rarely intervenes 
A single minute of good sense 
To pay for trouble and expense. 
'Tis but a sham, as all can see. 
Where none is happy, none is free, 
But all are under bondage sold 
To customs useless, senseless, old. 
The relics of a barbarous day, 
Which should forgotten be for aye. 

Thus governed by a vicious taste, 
We favor luxury and waste. 
In most things coarse, in none refined, 
To real beauty we are blind; 



BUTTONWOOD. 

And gaudy colors, graceless lines, 
And inappropriate designs 
Fill up the measure of our sight. 
While all around us, day and night, 
The loveliness of Nature lies 
Unnoticed by our careless eyes. 

Behold the Miss, yet in her teens, 
Appear in Fashion's gaudy scenes. 
Her manners masculine and rude. 
No qualms of modesty intrude, 
To mortify her swaggering air, 
Or check the boldness of her stare. 
Her conversation void of sense. 
But full of simpering pretense. 
Superlatives the verbal stock, 
That constitutes her endless talk, 
With slang acquired upon the street 
To make her rhetoric complete. 
But what she lacks in mental grace 
She furnishes in powdered face. 
And cheeks whose tinting not their own 
Suggest a tea-rose fully blown. 
Her costly wardrobe most her care. 
She lives in Fashion's poisoned air, 
A thing of vanity and pride, 
That fools admire and wits deride. 

Yet such a creature lacking soul 
And all true power of self-control. 
With fitful temper, empty head 
Presumptuously is often led. 
To seek, competing with the good. 
The place of wife and motherhood. 
No wonder that the age declines 
When imbeciles usurp the place 
Of guardians to the coming race. 

See too her masculine compeer 
In social life his front uprear 
And claim the homage only due 



BUTTONWOOD. 

To virtue high and manhood true. 

His manhood figures tailor-made, 

With hatter's and cordwainer's aid 

And ieweller's, who join their skill 

To have their dandy "dressed to kill." 

Thus in the latest style attired, 

Somehow withal he has acquired 

The art to say with gallant air 

A thousand nothings to the fair. 

And make himself, it is confessed. 

In drawing rooms a welcome guest. 

For piety he has a sneer. 

For womanhood a bow or leer, 

For noble aims concealed disgust. 

And much prefers a life of lust; 

Yet covers up each base design 

With pretty phrase and manners fine; 

A hero in Flirtation's eyes, 

But one whom honest men despise; 

To useful labor quite averse 

He battens on his parents' purse, 

And all their hard-earned cash he drains, 

Till not a picayune remains. 

In dissipation an expert. 

Yet scarce in reputation hurt 

By drunkenness or worse excess. 

He glories in his worthlessness; 

Though poor perchance, yet in his air 

He apes the haughty millionaire. 

And plays with impudence his part 

A libel in his head and heart, 

A low burlesque in all his plan 

Upon the noble race of man. 

Nor should I leave unnoticed here 
Old maids and widows that appear 
As eager venders in the mart 
Where bids are made for hand and heart, 
And males and females long to pair. 
If they can win the lion's share. 



BUTTONWOOD. 

What toils are spread, what nets are cast, 

What arts to bind the victims fast, 

What time and labor freely spent, 

By those on Hymen's ends intent, 

All know who watch the amorous game 

The crafty play in friendship's name! 

O woman, long by poets praised. 
And on a pedestal upraised. 
Which Flattery, with cunning hand. 
Has built upon the treacherous sand, 
No angel art thou, but a child 
Of mother Eve, who was beguiled 
To eat of that forbidden tree. 
The source of all our misery. 
It is not well that we should paint 
Thee in the likeness of a saint, 
While follies in thy life abound 
And sin within thy soul is found. 
Thou knowest it is better far 
To limn thy features as they are, 
To show thee stripped of all disguise, 
And turning from romantic lies. 
Speak out whatever we shall find 
To be the measure of thy mind. 

Thou lovest ev'ry pretty thing. 
The ostrich plume, the flicker's wing, 
The golden watch, the flashing gem. 
And standest ready to condemn 
Each useful change and wise device, 
Unless the nabobs call it "nice"; 
Thou torturest thy graceful form. 
Thou goest chilled or over-warm. 
And pinching feet and squeezing chest. 
Deforming both at Style's behest; 
Thou oft art Fashion's willing tool, 
Till men deride thee as a fool; 
Thou lovest gossip, nor afraid 
Art thou of scandal's ruthless trade, 



BUTTONWOOD. 

That dares to wring with pain intense 
The shrinking heart of innocence. 
Thou art no slave, as thou hast pled, 
But art of social life the head; 
In ev'ry thing thou hast thy say, 
In most, thine own unthinking way. 
And the whole world is at thy will, 
That world of which thou speakest ill. 
The world is what thyself hast wrought 
Out of the children thou hast brought. 
The infant race is thine to train 
To thy desire in heart and brain, 
And none are sinners overmuch. 
But thy example makes them such. 
Didst thou but cease thyself to hurt. 
Resolved no more to dress and flirt. 
From vanity release thy soul. 
And put thee under Truth's control. 
Thou wouldst be what we all desire. 
What angels love and men admire. 
Then the whole world at thy command 
On Virtue's side would firmly stand; 
All in her practice would engage. 
And usher in the golden age. 

Then let the better time roll round 
When men shall rational be found. 
When, conscious of their high estate, 
They lift themselves, with hearts elate 
Out of the low and miry plains, 
And washed of their polluting stains. 
Climb up the steeps to regions fair, 
And breathe the purer, upper air. 
Where no miasma taints the soul. 
But, under Truth's serene conti^ol, 
Each shall accord with virtue's plan. 
And reach the stature of a man. 

When God the land and sea had made 
And the broad heavens in stars arrayed, 



BUTTONWOOD. 

He looked on all, and called it good, 

But saw the need of one that should 

Be over all, and all admire, 

And to the noblest deeds aspire. 

So in pursuance of his plan 

To crown creation's work with man 

He from the dust a body made. 

Which every grace of form displayed, 

Then into it he breathed a soul 

Of life and thought and self-control. 

In his own image God thus formed 

The first man, Adam, to be warmed 

By love divine, and to be found 

"With strength and skill to till the ground. 

God placed him then in Eden's bowers. 

To dwell amid its trees and flowers. 

And have its fruits as recompense 

For labor and for innocence. 

But man as yet was all alone, 
And social ways had never known; 
So God formed Eve, a partner meet. 
To make the joy of life complete. 
These two from their Creator came 
All free from thought of sin or shame. 
And when, by Satan led astray, 
They were from Eden sent away. 
It was to earn their daily bread, 
And be by honest labor fed. 

The Lord designed the human pair 
For rural scenes and country air. 
The city was an after-thought 
Which Cain the fratricidal wrought, 
When from the presence of his God, 
He fled into the land of Nod. 
There he, of Adam's race the worst, 
To found a city was the first. 
Long afterwards, the people, bent 
On city life, to Shinar went, 



BUTTONWOOD. 

To make a name, and build a tower, 

For unity of speech and i^ower. 

But God soon checked their vanity. 

When he came down their work to see. 

He in their midst confusion wrought, 

And brought their foolish scheme to nought. 

With divers tongues he scattered all 

The builders of the tower tall, — 

The builders of that city vast 

Whose name 's a byword of the past. 

Experience seems to indicate 
That man, to gain his best estate 
Requires a freedom only found 
Within the country's ample ground 
For folks in crowded cities grown 
Like hot-bed plants too closely sown 
Are healthy none, but all are frail. 
And of life's noble objects fail; 
Like fruit in humid cellar piled. 
The tainted have the sound defiled, 
Till none infection can evade, 
But all the mass becomes decayed; 
Or else like fish of various kind 
Within a little pool confined, 
The larger ones the smaller eat, 
And with their victims thus replete. 
Become a proud and pampered few 
That one another envious view. 

There breathing the unhealthy air, 
"With scant attire and meagre fare, 
The poor oft toil from day to day. 
Beneath some haughty lordling's sway, 
Whose only merit is his wealth. 
Obtained, perchance, by fraud or stealth. 
They by replenishing his store, 
Increase their penury the more, 
And sinking lower in the scale, 
As self-respect and honor fail, 



10 BUTTONWOOD. 

From virtue's paths at last they stray, 
And reckless walk the downward way. 
With evil deeds familiar grown, 
They form a circle of their own. 
And thus remain an outcast race, 
But still retentive of their place, 
. They like a plague contagion spread, 
Empoisoning the fountain head 
Of social life and happiness— 
A fearful wrong without redress! 

There guarded by our license laws, 
With Appetite to plead his cause, 
The Alcoholic Demon reigns, 
And in his retinue retains 
The hydra dire of vice and crime, 
And, with an impudence malign, 
Enthrones himself in church and state, 
And rules the little and the great. 
Untrammeled in his evil ways. 
Upon the nation's life he preys. 
Degrades the lofty, stains the pure. 
And robs the wealthy and the poor, 
Arouses hatred, kindles strife. 
And makes the land with murder rife, 
Each pauper house and prison fills, 
The innocent assails and kills. 
Breaks woman's heart with purpose fell, 
And dooms his devotees to hell! 
His horrors our officials view, 
And all permit for revenue, — 
Permit, encourage, sanction all 
The fiendish deeds of Alcohol, 
That they may fill the public purse 
With taxes from a nation's curse. 

When Guttenberg, on German ground, 
The noble art of printing found. 
And, first of all, the book divine 
To type committed, line by line, 



BUTTONWOOD. H 

That men the way of life might know, 
And with the love of virtue glow, 
He little dreamed that after years 
Would iustify the pious fears, 
That Satan, in a printer's dress, 
Was the magician of the press. 
But here the devil has his sway. 
And guides the issues of the day. 
In books and papers he conceals 
The virus which to all he deals — 
The unbelief that now pervades 
The social body, and invades 
The church and home, till all around 
Fools, rakes, and anarchists abound. 
And scoffers, worse than those of old, 
All virtue in derision hold. 
And all this verbal deviltry 
Within the city rages free; 
The cultured and the rabble rout 
Here from the busy press pour out 
An endless stream of idle words— 
The jabber of Stymphalian birds- 
Science and sermons full of sneers. 
And novels packed with quips and jeers 
At the old book whose righteous law 
Demands a life without a flaw, 
And whose good message rescues all 
From sin that heed the gracious call. 

Such scenes in city life we see. 
And even worse we know to be 
In all the dens and haunts of sin 
Found every where the town within. 
In every clime and every age. 
Since man began his pilgrimage. 
The greatest scourges of our race 
In cities find their brooding place. 
There nurtured in their dark retreats. 
Till stronger grown they seek the streets, 
And overleaping every bound, 



12 BUTTONWOOD, 

They ravage all the country round. 

Thus rapine, war, and tyranny, 

Blighting all lands from sea to sea, 

And pestilence that walks by night, 

Nor shuns the noontide's glaring light, — 

Begin their course where pleasure's dome 

Looks down on misery's squalid home. 

So Rome the mighty testifies, 

Whence all the ills beneath the skies 

Have issued forth in dire array, 

To make the tribes of men their prey. 

Give me the country's quiet life, 
Far from the crowd's unseemly strife, 
Give me the scenes that God has made, 
And with his matchless skill arrayed 
In all that charms the thoughtful eye, 
Or wakes the soul to ecstasy. 

The greatest want that I have known, 
A want I scarcely dare to own, 
Is sympathy in such pursuits 
As those my vagrant fancy suits. 
For plodding work my restless mind 
By Nature never was designed, 
Much less has she my spirit made 
Inclined to politics or trade, 
Nor more congenial is the life 
Which spends itself in legal strife, 
Nor can I Galen's art endure. 
More likely far to kill than cure, 
Nor have I cherished a desire 
To cleric honors to aspire. 
For pastor ating is a trade 
By which a livelihood is made, 
And men in sombre garb attired. 
By pious folks are yearly hired 
To please the critics of the pew, 
And bring the sect with honor through. 

Unmerchantable thoughts are mine. 
That with my purposes entwine, 



BUTTONWOOD. 13 

And lead me to far different ends 

Than those for which the world contends. 

I hate the clamor of the crowd, 

And gossip constantly allowed 

In all the circles called polite — 

That name so seldom used aright — 

And every vain amusement made 

For idlers of themselves afraid; 

I hate the envy and the pride, 

That form a mountain high and wide 

Between the souls that else would run, 

Like crystal streamlets into one; 

I hate Ambition's mad career, 

Supplanting love with cruel fear, 

And keeping struggling millions down, 

That one may wear a worthless crown; 

I hate the noisy paths of life, 

The eagerness and selfish strife, 

The fires of rivalry that burn, 

Whichever way our footsteps turn; — 

I hate them all, and glad would flee 

From all their scenes of misery. 

From early childhood my delight 
Has been to rove from morn till night 
Where Nature holds her court serene 
In leafy grove or meadow green, 
Or where the uplands stretch away 
To mountain steeps remote and gray. 
The song of bird or hum of bee 
Is music sweeter far to me 
Than all the notes that man can bring 
From wood, or brass, or sonant string. 
I'd rather listen to the breeze 
That sways the stately forest trees. 
Than stand within cathedral dim. 
And hear the grandest vesper hymn. 

I well remember what strange awe 
Seized on me when a child I saw 



14 BUTTONWOOD. 

The heavens atev'ning spreading far, 
And Cynthia in her silver car, 
And stars unnumbered shining down 
From sceptred Night's imperial crown. 
And ever since I've loved to come 
Beneath this awe-inspiring dome, 
This stately temple which the Word 
That Darkness and old Chaos heard 
Bade rise from its foundations deep. 
To stand until the dead from sleep 
Are called by that Almighty Voice 
That made the sons of God rejoice, 
And all the stars of morning raise 
The loftiest anthems of their praise. 
With fast dilating thought I then 
Forget the petty creeds of men. 
Forget the strifes of folly bred, 
Where neither side by truth is led, 
Forget each low, ignoble aim. 
Each base desire of earthly fame, 
Which leads so many souls astray 
That might have gone the upward way. 
Forget them all, with naught between 
My spirit and the dawn serene 
Of peace ineffable and love 
Each earth-born feeling far above. 
Bathed in the fount of pure delight, 
My soul then takes an upward flight, 
Explores aloft with ardor keen 
Sweet realms by mortal eyes unseen. 

But if I love in solitude 
To ramble in the field and wood 
And constant pleasure in them find, 
'Tis not because in human kind 
A cynical indifference 
I bear, displaying want of sense. 
No, in these lonely walks I feel 
An interest in human weal 
Far greater than I ever knew 



BUTTONWOOD. 15 

When, wandering the city through, 
My steps I frequently allowed 
To mingle with the fevered crowd. 

To one who looks at both when near. 
Like rough statues men appear. 
The chisel marks and numerous flaws 
Defiance bid to Beauty's laws. 
Lift np these to their home 
Around some temple's lofty dome, 
And each one, in its destined place, 
Becomes a form instinct with grace, — 
The distance covers every flaw 
Which, just before, the gazer saw; 
No sign of roughness is retained, 
But smoothest elegance is gained. 
So is it with uncultured man. 
Who seems to mar great Nature's plan, 
Presenting flaws on every side 
To those who neighboring abide. 
And watch the evils, day by day, 
That in our common actions play. 

Contemptuous feelings oft arise, 
If man with too familiar eyes 
Is scanned in this degenerate age. 
But I, withdrawing from the crowd. 
Where noise of conflict waxes loud. 
Where Folly's victims ceaseless mourn. 
And curse the day that they were born, 
Where Vanity parades the streets. 
And homage asks of all she meets, — 
Find, in the lonely solitudes 
Of meadows broad and lofty woods, 
A prospect of each human scene. 
With fault-concealing miles between. 
The race abstracted from its crimes 
And viewed throughout the changing times 
Seems like a f ar-oflf statue grand. 
Fresh from the unseen Artist's hand. 



16 BUTTONWOOD. 

Thus distance lends to man a charm 

That makes my bosom towards him warm. 

The feelings of dislike and pride 

That often prompt me to deride 

The frailties of my fellow men 

Are all exchanged for pity then; 

And strength for duty thus I draw — 

Strength to conform to every law 

Belonging to the gracious plan 

By heaven ordained for wayward man — 

I draw, by Nature hither led. 

From Truth's eternal fountain head. 

But class me not with them who hold — 
Pretended thinkers vain and bold — 
That Nature of herself can show 
What we so much desire to know, 
That written on her ample page. 
In characters for youth and age, 
Are revelations of the way 
That leads to Glory's endless day, 
And that no further voice we need 
If we but Nature's language heed. 
Though beauties constantly appear 
To man's enraptured eye and ear, 
Yet Nature is forever dumb 
To all who unenlightened come 
To question her with anxious mind 
About the things that lie behind 
The mystic veil that hangs between 
The visible and the unseen. 
Philosophers with prying eyes 
Have scanned the earth and starry skies, 
And, with the plummet's slender line. 
Have dipped beneath the ocean's brine, 
But nothing more have ever found 
In making their remotest round 
Than varied matter bound by laws 
That indicate a hidden cause — 
Almighty force directing well, 



BUTTONWOOD. 17 

But what it is they cannot tell. 

What strange infatuations seize 
All those who seek themselves to please I 
At their wild follies oft I gaze, 
Yet ever view them in amaze. 
How sad that men with noble powers 
Unworthily should spend their hours, 
Fair Wisdom's hoarded gems forsake. 
And Falsehood's dust for jewels take! 
All men not brutishly inclined 
Their lives in duplicate will find. 
Like double currents in a stream. 
That in contrarious motion seem. 
One turbulently onward goes, 
The other calmly backward flows; 
One in gross matter must be sought, 
The other in the realm of thought; 
One life we have within the soul. 
Completely under our control. 
The other in the world of sense, 
The sport of outward elements. 
The latter mostly is preferred 
Whenever preference is averred; 
For, strange to say, the outer world. 
Where Strife's red banners are unfurled, 
Where disappointments erver reign, 
And pleasures lose themselves in pain. 
Where souls, forgetful of the sky. 
In sloughs of degradation lie. 
Or, heedless of the warning call 
Of Virtue, into ruin fall. 
Where on the waves of passion tost, 
Man floats a wreck, and then is lost, — 
Has more attractions for our kind 
Than all the beauties of the mind. 
Or all the lasting joys confessed 
To dwell within a peaceful breast. 
I'd have my fellows raised, refined. 
As the Creator has designed ; 



18 BUTTONWOOD. 

I'd have them turn from baits of sense 
To faith in God and providence, 
Leaving their present low pursuits, 
Which have produced such bitter fruits; 
I'd have them seek the things unseen, 
The bays of vii'tue ever green, 
Bring passion under strict control, 
, And guard that priceless thing the soul 
From thought impure and wrong desire, 
And it with noble purpose fire 
To scale the heights where honor lies, 
Immortal guerdon of the skies. 

All true refinement has its spring 
In generous purposes that bring 
The soul to truth and purity. 
And from all folly set it free. 
'Tis not in forms of etiquette, 
Nor lines by flaunting fashion set, 
Nor any artificial grace. 
That this refinement has its place. 
No, 'tis a gift on men conferred, 
Xiike power of music on the bird; 
It is an instinct undefined 
That rules within the owner's mind. 
Repelling all things coarse and rude. 
And welcoming the pure and good. 
This instinct royalty insures. 
And Natui'e's true nobility secures 
To them who ever guard it well 
And in its presence constant dwell. 
Where such refinement can be found. 
There Culture has a solid ground 
On which her temple to upraise. 
The graceful object of our praise. 
Then speech and action all accord 
To render man creation's lord, 
A prince in thought and word and deed, 
Made worthy of the highest meed. 

The times, alas, in which we live 



BUTTONWOOD. 19 

Few signs of real progress give; 
For, notwithstanding all the stir 
Of business, and constant whir 
Of steam-propelled machinery. 
And bustle loud of industry. 
The whole is oft a specious show 
That to a race already low 
Becomes a blandishment of ill 
Which will degrade it lower still. 
Though this, the boasted age of steam 
Surpasses fable's wildest dream, 
Binding the long-rebellious main, 
Like Xerxes with his iron chain. 
And hurling with unerring hand 
The lightnings over sea and land, 
Its triumphs merit not our praise, 
For they the race can never raise 
Above material sensuous life. 
And turn it from the bitter strife 
Of selfishness and cruel pride, 
And crush the serpent lusts that glide 
Around fair Virtue's sacred bower, 
And poison all within their power. 
These triumphs which increase the store 
Of pampered Wealth are often more 
Like dire defeats that mar the plan 
Of Providence and ruin man. 
The highly vaunted victories 
Our century now daily sees. 
Where Science toiling like a slave 
In gloomy mine or ocean cave, 
In workshop or in clattering mill. 
Or elsewhere at its masters' will, 
May in the end prove worse than those 
Great Hannibal won o'er his foes. 
He, foremost soldier of the world. 
His standards on the Alps unfurled, 
Defied their icy summits grand. 
And, bursting on Italic's land, 



20 BUTTONWOOD. 

Swept all before him in dismay, 

Until on Cannae's bloody day 

He crushed the legions of old Rome 

And shook Tarpseca's sacred dome. 

But victory turned to defeat: 

In Capua's luxurious seat 

He with his army staid a space, 

And laid the ruin of his race. 

The conquered Romans were his bane, 

And, with corruption's fatal chain, 

Bound his unthinking veterans fast, 

And proved his victors at the last. 

How few there are whose wishes rise 
To compass deeds of high emprise. 
Who cast the chains of matter off, 
Though fear may doubt and wit may scoflf, 
And in the cleansing fount of truth 
Renew their innocence and youth. 
Leon, 'tis said, with eager band 
Of Spaniards through the Flowery Land, 
Sought far and near the fabled spring 
Whose waters to the bather bring 
That cleaves their crystal purity 
The loveliness of infancy, — 
Elastic health and beauty's bloom 
That fear no sickness, dread no tomb. 
The soldier found not what he sought. 
And all his labors were for naught. 
Deluded by an idle tale 
Like that about the Holy Grail, 
He wandered on till hope was spent 
And death the fatal arrow sent. 
Not so with him who seeks the wave 
In which his weary soul may lave: 
Close, close beside him it is found, 
And in our quiet hours the sound 
Of its low murmur meets our ear. 
The sweetest music mortals hear. 
Beside its sparkling waters deep 



BUTTONWOOD. 21 

May our freed spirits ever keep, 
And gather flowers of fadeless sheen 
That grow upon its margent green. 
And bathe till washed of all alloy 
We reach the golden gates of joy! 

There is enough in nature's plan 
To satisfy the needs of man; 
The fields afford him daily food, 
And thus supply material good; 
To serve him all the forces vie 
That govern earth or rule the sky ; « 
For him the seasons make their round, 
For him each pleasing sight or sound, 
For him alone the task to trace 
The soul that beams through Nature's face, 
To lift the veil that hangs between 
Mere matter and the Great Unseen, 
To walk in paths before untrod. 
And learn the wondrous thoughts of God. 
But in this unbelieving age, 
Though Nature's works the minds engage 
Of thousands wandering to and fro. 
And watching closely as they go 
Whatever moves or quiet lies 
Upon the earth, or in the skies. 
Or in the everchanging sea, 
They fail to solve the mystery 
Of Nature's origin and laws, 
And overlook the Primal Cause, 
Without the knowledge of whose will 
They wander in the darkness still. 
Or cheated by the fitful glare 
Of science through the murky air. 
They shut their eyes to higher light, 
And fall and perish from our sight. 

They who from error are made free 
By him whose voice at Bethany 
Resistless forced the gates of doom, 



22 BUTTONWOOD, 

And brought the sleeper from the tomb, 

Can see with their anointed eyes 

The mystery that hidden lies 

From them whom vanities enthrall 

Or superstition's rites appall. 

The world which we by sense perceive 

And pleasure from it oft receive 

Is like those priestly symbols found 

On obelisks with ages crowned 

Along the Nile's enchanted flood 

Whose waters once were turned to blood. 

The traveler these curious lines 

Of ancient learning's sculptured signs 

Inspects, and if he has the key 

That will unlock the mystery, 

He passes through the hallowed door. 

And reads the sacred thoughts of yore. 

So he who views with reverent eyes 

The world of sense that round him lies. 

And all interprets by the word 

Of Him whose voice Judoea heard, 

Removes the veil and wondering sees 

The mystery of mysteries. 

As we the panorama view 
Of changing Nature ever new, 
Let us remember whose skilled hand 
Has traced for us the picture grand. 
As on it we enraptured gaze, 
Let us the Mighty Artist praise. 
And in our heart's most sacred shrine 
Burn incense to His art divine. 

O witching power of limning Art, 
Source of delight to every heart, 
Whose pleasures never leave behind 
Regretful thoughts to vex the mind. 
May I a moment turn to thee 
Whom I have loved from infancy? 
Thou art fond Nature's dearest child, 



BUTTONWOOD. 23 

Her second self whose manners mild 

Allure us to thy mother's home, 

And lead us in her steps to roam. 

How many a day of joy serene, 

With beauty gracing every scene, 

I've spent with thee in years agone. 

Whose memories crowd my heart upon, 

And waken still the old desire 

Unto thy garlands to aspire. 

With book and pencil have I strayed. 

And counterfeits of Nature made, — 

Of landscapes stretching far away 

Till lost in distance dim and gray, 

Of rocks and stones with moss o'ergrown. 

Of waterfalls in forest lone, 

Of stately trees with vines festooned, 

Where wood-thrush oft his notes attuned, 

Of flower, and bird, and insect race, — 

All these my pencil stopped to trace. 

And thus engaged I wondering found 

An unsuspected world around; 

I saw new beauties every hour 

Unveiled by Art's increasing power; 

What seemed to others commonplace 

To me appeared replete with grace: 

The hut where poverty abode, 

Each group of weeds beside the road, 

The meanest object that I knew, 

When touched by Art's enchantment, grew 

To my no longer clouded sight 

A thing of beauty and delight. 

And this new sense which then she gained 

My soul has ever since retained. 

And ever since with reverent eyes 

Beholds the loveliness that lies 

In common things that seem uncouth 

To minds that seek not hidden truth. 

There is a spirit that we call 
The Spirit of Beauty, filling all 



24 BUTTONWOOD. 

Of Nature's works on every hand, 

In the deep sea and on the land; 

And only those whom Truth have crooned 

"With purest love are worthy found 

This radiant Spirit to receive 

And lasting impress have it leave 

Upon their hearts, of deepest joy 

That worldly cares cannot destroy. 

This Spirit is the wondrous power 

That in creation's morning hour 

Moved o'er the silent, shoreless sea 

In steps of awful mystery, 

Ere yet sweet joy-inspiring light 

Came forth first-born of ebon Night, 

And ere from out the waters rose 

This earth, which now with beauty glows. 

O wondrous Spirit, let me be 
Companion ever meet for thee; 
Take my obedient hand in thine. 
And lead me to thy secret shrine, 
And there anoint afresh mine eyes. 
That I may see thy mysteries; 
Thine own sweet self to me impart 
Until thou fillest all my heart. 
And then a fitting hymn I'll raise, 
O Spirit of Beauty, to thy praise! 

True peace, content, and happiness 
Cannot be found, we must confess 
Amid the selfishness of trade. 
Where honor is for riches paid. 
And men — I blush such truth to tell — 
Their very souls for gold will sell! 
My mind has had another bent. 
On different scenes my thoughts intent, 
Where purer light of heaven falls 
Far, far beyond the city's walls, 
On flowery mead, and sparkling rill. 
On rocky glen and wooded hill. 



BUTTONWOOD. 25 

A dream with which my fancy wild 
Has pleased me even from a child 
Has been to have a country home, 
From which my heart should never roam. 
I'd have it far from Traffic's din 
Some wood-surrounded vale within, 
A varied stretch of fertile land 
By hills hemmed in and mountains grand, 
With here and there a crystal stream, 
Whose waters in the sunlight gleam. 
Or, sheltered by the rocks and trees. 
Scarce feel the touch of wanton breeze. 
Toward the southward there should be 
A prospect of the dark blue sea. 
Raised high above the watery waste, 
My cozy mansion should be placed. 
But near enough to hear the roar 
Of tempests on the ocean shore, 
And afterwards to see the sand 
Foam-covered on the rocky strand. 

I'd have a house of rustic style, 
Not some pretentious city pile, 
But low, secure, with ample space 
For all that rural life can grace. 
Four rooms below, and six above, 
With the great garret children love, 
Right through the midst an ample hall 
From vestibule to rearward wall, 
And each with window wide and high 
For air and sunlight and the sky. 
Would furnish all the space I need 
To emphasize my rustic creed. 
Upon the walls and slated roof. 
Against the storms of winter proof. 
The clinging ivy should be found 
In glossy clusters massed around. 
Within, the chambers finished plain. 
Should simple furniture contain, 
For use and comfort all designed 



26 BUTTONWOOD. 

Yet all displaying taste refined 

Like that which cultured Grecia charmed 

Before her race by wealth was harmed. 

A garden park of rolling ground 
This rural cottage should surround, 
Where trees and flowers should grace the scene, 
And other products intervene. 
With spring's first breath of balmy air, 
This garden park should be my care. 
I'd neatly trim the hedges round, 
Train up the vines, and clear the ground 
Of leaves and twigs and withered stalks 
By autumn strown o'er beds and walks. 
The ground prepared by spade and rake, 
Each plot and path with care I'd make. 
And early seeds in order sow 
In spots where they would likeliest grow. 
Soon vegetables should abound, 
And flowery clusters bloom around, 
Each in its season watched with care, 
The useful, r-edolent, and fair. 

While thus engaged I'd hear the song 
Of vernal gladness all day long; 
For fearlessly the birds should come, 
A happy family, round my home: 
The redbreast with his ebon crown. 
The thrush with plumage grey and brown. 
The bluebird herald of the spring. 
The swallow tireless on the wing, 
The oriole with orange breast. 
And sprightly song, and swinging nest, 
The chat that from his heap of brush 
With quivering wing delights to rush, 
And then with somersault retrace 
His way into his hiding place. 
The wren with noisy, bustling ways. 
The mocking-bird with witching lays, 
The flicker with his prying bill, 



BUTTONWOOD. 27 

The night-resounding whip-poor-will, 

The cardinal magnificent, 

The crafty jay on plunder bent, 

The sparrow with its trusting eye, 

The lark, sweet poet of the sky, 

The yellow-throat, the sly chewink. 

The merry, ranting bobolink. 

The cuckoo, prophet of the rain. 

The killdeer, from the distant plain, 

The pewit with its plaintive cry. 

The dove with sorrow-breathing sigh, 

The wood-thrush, rival of the flute, 

The nut-hatch hoarse but never mute, 

The partridge with his shrill bob-white, 

The redbird with his feathers bright. 

The cat-bird with his cunning stare, 

The kingbird, tyrant of the air. 

And terror of the busy hive 

At which he makes his eager dive, 

The chimney-bird with sooty coat, 

And humming-bird with ruby throat, — 

All these should come and many more, 

And bring their music to my door. 

And when the day of darkness born. 

Unlocked the golden gates of morn, 

Awakening the dreaming flowers 

And ushering the rosy hours, 

Then what a concert should resound 

My leaf-embosomed mansion round! 

Not Ole Bull and Jenny Lind, 

With voice and instrument combined, 

Could with a sweeter chorus there 

Enthrill with joy the ambient air. 

And when the health-inspiring sun 

His course across the heavens had run, 

And cooled his ruddy fervency 

In waters of the western sea. 

Those fairy melodies again 

Would flow from meadow, hill, and glen. 



28 BUTTONWOOD. 

Until the night had cast a pall 
Of starry sable over all, 
And universal silence reigned, 
Unless, perchance the owl complained. 
Or whip-poor-will with tireless throat 
Disturbed the echoes with his note. 

And I in turn protecting hand 
Would lend to all this tuneful band. 
No sportsman with his cruel eye 
On my domain in wait should lie, 
Or hover round with stealthy tread 
To gloat upon the plumy dead. 
No fierce grimalkin would I keep. 
With horrid claw and fatal leap, 
To make my warbling choir a prey, 
And bear their bleeding forms away. 
No, every feline should be sent 
Into unending banishment. 
Far from each haunt and nesting tree 
Of my sweet band of minstrelsy. 
Free from all danger they should flit 
Among the trees, or swinging sit 
Upon the boughs, or play around 
Suspicionless upon the ground; 
And some in time, familiar grown. 
Would view me as a friend well known. 
And venturing often to my feet. 
From out my open hand would eat. 

There would I spend the fleeting years. 
Remote from all tormenting fears 
That fill the city's fevered life, 
Where men with men in Mammon's strife. 
Or wild Ambition's thorny path. 
Fill up the cruel cup of wrath. 
And hurried on from day to day, 
Throw all their precious hours away. 
Divested of sad brooding care. 
Content I'd breathe the quiet air. 



BUTTONWOOD. 29 

Sweet Peace should come with angel wing, 
And Joy domestic with her bring, 
And both within my rustic cot 
Should daily share my humble lot. 
There with my books and busy pen, 
As now, I still would labor then; 
With rambles in the woods and fields. 
To taste the sweets which Nature yields, 
Or wanderings by the lonely shore, 
Where Ocean murmurs evermore; 
And now and then a cherished friend. 
Additional delight, should lend 
To sunny day and cloudless eve, 
As each should give and each receive 
Unconsciously from mind to mind 
The grace of sympathy refined. 

My Muse, too timid for the throng. 
Would there renew her feeble song, 
Delighted if a kindly few 
Should hear her simple numbers through. 
And, ever error passing by, 
Regard her verse with partial eye. 
Content with friendship's narrow fame. 
No other audience would she claim; 
Thrice happy to escape the claw 
Of pouncing critic and the law 
By spectacled reviewers passed 
That every poem on a last 
Made by themselves must closely fit, 
Or be condemned as void of wit, 
And destitute of every grace 
That should in verse have constant place. 

When Winter, with congealing hand, 
Had waved his sceptre o'er the land, 
And locked with ice the brooks and rills, 
And had the mountains, and the hills. 
And every valley, and the plain 
That stretches to the distant main. 



30 BUTTONWOOD. 

Enveloped in his mantle white 
In token of his king-ly right 
To rule the land, till genial May 
Should overturn his icy sway; 
Then, to my studies closely drawn, 
I'd labor from the early dawn 
Until the sun to seek his rest 
Should draw the curtains of the West, 
And through its golden portal glide. 
And in its crimson chamber hide. 
I'd fill my mind with polished thought 
In stores of ancient learning sought, 
And with increasing pleasure trace 
The thrilling story of our race, 
The rise of empires, pride of kings, 
And all that humbler fortune brings 
To them who quiet view afar 
The rush of Glory's ruthless car. 
But when the eve in vestments gray 
Succeeded to the fleeting day. 
Upon a lounge before the grate 
I'd lie reclined in musing state; 
And as I viewed the ruddy flame, 
So like the fickle glare of fame, 
I'd bid my fancy freely rove 
In vernal mead and autumn grove, 
Or calling up the cherished dead 
To greet me from their lowly bed, 
I'd live again the scenes of yore 
Upon life's hapi^y morning shore, 
Or clasping Hope's enticing hand 
I'd wander on that blooming strand 
Beyond Time's dark and troubled sea, 
Where faith is crowned with victory, 
And where the loved, now missing here, 
In fadeless glory shall appear. 

In such employment day by day 
My life obscure would glide away; 
Like rivulet whose waters pass 



BUTTONWOOD. 31 

Unseen beneath the sheltering grass, 

Or clustered alders bending low 

To listen to its purling flow. 

By feet of travel never stirred 

And by the busy world unheard 

It runs all pure and crystalline, 

Fit emblem of that life of mine. 

And such, O Thoreau, was thy lot 

Secluded in thy pine-built cot 

That in the cedar's shadow stood 

Within the depths of Walden wood. 

Leaving the restless crowds behind, 

A sweet communion thou didst find 

With Nature, and her mystic scroll 

With skilful fingers didst unroll. 

Displaying to our duller sight 

Her secrets in a clearer light. 

And thee her strangest child we call, 

Yet one that loved her most of all. 

Thy harmless life with her was passed,— 

And in Earth's bosom now at last. 

Indifferent to smiles or tears, 

Thou sleepest through the changing years. 

Alas! for all our plans below, 
Our dreams of life that come and go, 
And with us leave the gloomy thought 
That all our happiness is naught. 
In anxiousness we spend our years 
Alternately with hopes and fears. 
The things we wish we never gain, 
Or win them only to our pain, 
The bitter trials that we fear 
Are mostly certain to appear. 
And as we near at last the goal 
And memory spreads before the soul 
The record of the vanished days, 
We view with terror and amaze 
Neglected duties, evil deeds 
Unhallowed thoughts and selfish needs. 



32 BUTTONWOOD. 

While Conscience stern and pitiless 
Redoubles then our deep distress, 
Till Mercy coming from the skies, 
With tender heart and tearful eyes, 
Leads us to Him who bore our shame, 
And bids us trust in His blest name. 

O Thou, the glory of our race, 
In whom all perfectness has place. 
The Sinless Man in whom we see 
The fulness of divinity. 
The Christ of purity and love. 
Of earth and yet from heaven above. 
Thou dead yet living Nazarene, 
The only God our world has seen; 
Thy God adorns Thee with His crown, 
And angels bend adoring down; 
All heaven echoes with Thy fame. 
All demons tremble at Thy name, 
And all their oracles are dumb. 
Thou wast and art and art to come. 
The only hope of weary hearts. 
Whose grace to struggling souls imparts 
Strength not their own and righteousness. 
To lift them from their dire distress. 
On earth we wander lone and sad. 
Till Thee we meet ashamed yet glad. 
Thou cheerest us in trouble's day. 
And drivest all our gloom away; 
To Thee our eyes must ever turn. 
For Thee our love must ever burn, 
In Thee our trust secure will rest, 
By Thee we shall at last be blest. 
Through Thee we yet though dead shall live; 
For Thou eternal life dost give 
To all who trustingly have heard. 
And walked obedient to Thy word. 

It cannot be that Fate denies 
The age for which creation sighs. 



BUTTONWOOD. 33 

The age in rapture oft foretold 

By seers and dreaming bards of old, 

The age of universal love 

Like that which reigns in heaven above, 

When Virtue shall resume her sway, 

And mental darkness flee away. 

When Justice, not with penal laws 

Shall sternly reassert her cause, 

But with the voice of Conscience true 

Obtain for all their every due; 

When men no more shall seek for wealth, 

But rather peace and ruddy health. 

Attaining by their simple ways 

To patriarchal length of days, 

And by Religion wisely led 

Gain knowledge at the fountain-head, 

And daily find in Truth's employ 

A rich reward of sweetest joy. 

This golden age will yet appear. 

Already is its advent near; 

Afar upon the orient sky 

The first gray tints of morning lie; 

Soon shall arise our world to bless 

The healing Sun of righteousness; 

Then joy shall banish every fear, 

And Eden's innocence appear, 

And Earth with bridal glory crowned. 

Among her sister stars renowned. 

Shall see angelic hosts descend. 

And mortals with immortals blend. 

Fair Buttonwood, how far away 
Am I from thee this summer day, 
Perhaps no more to see the shade 
Where often in the past I strayed. 
Yet calm delight in thee I find 
As I thy scenes recall to mind. 
The glow of summer lingered still 
Within the vale and on the hill. 
The golden-rod his nodding plume 



34 BUTTONWOOD. 

Upraised beside the purple bloom 
Of ironweed and astor pale, 
While by the brookside in the vale, 
Reminder gay of brighter days 
The sunflower spread his yellow rays, 
And on the forest's varied edge. 
Or towering from the hawthorne's hedge, 
The maple trees began to show 
The first red tints of autumn's glow, 
The swallow from the sky was gone, 
The oriole had fled the lawn, 
And in the wood the earliest bird 
That comes from out the north was heard, 
"When on a well-remembered day 
I for the first time took my way 
To see thy beauty and to hear 
Kind welcome from the inmates dear. 
As recollection brings to view 
The ones whom once I found so true 
I wonder if I am forgot 
Or deemed as one who now is not. 
I ask, because how very rare 
Is friendship time does not impair, 
Transforming it, howe'er intense. 
At last to cold indifference. 
A very few perchance we find 
Who all their lives continue kind. 
Our joys and sorrows, smiles and tears, 
In spite of absence and of years. 
They gladly share whene'er they learn 
What way the tides of fortune turn. 
But friends are mostly like the gay- 
Plumed warblers of a summer's day, 
That with the radiant June appear 
But vanish in the autumn drear. 
I ask because of one lone friend 
Whom memory is wont to blend 
With thy retreat and welcome shade, 
And whom my Muse in fancy made 



BUTTONWOOD. 



35 



The auditor of all her song 
In days serene now vanished long, 
And whom from out her quiet rest 
She thus in rhyming lines addressed: 

"O thou whose voice from some near dale, 
Where shades of loneliness prevail, 
Has reached me in my forest glade 
Encompassed with a deeper shade, 
I thank thee with a heart sincere 
For all thy words that greet me here 
From thy dear lips intent to grace 
With commendation every trace 
Of merit in my simple lays. 
Now wreathed by thee with friendship's bays. 
I know not why thou shouldst delight 
To favor me with smile so bright, 
And praise so highly what I wrought 
In such distrust I often thought 
It was a sad misuse of time 
To spend it on my humble rhyme. 
Yet this fond fancy fills my mind 
That thou to me art all so kind 
Because thou long hast been like me 
A rambler near some lonely sea, 
Where nought is heard along the shore 
But billows moaning evermore; 
Or else, afar from sounding main, 
A rover on some upland plain 
Thou hast attained to heights unknown, 
Yet ever sadder, sadder grown 
As thou in that pure realm hast found 
Oppressive solitude around. 

"If so, O friend, I can divine 
What thou hast found in verse of mine, 
Can speak for thee the mystic word 
Which often in thy heart is heard. 
And to thy life afford the key 
Which opens every mystery. 



36 BUTTONWOOD. 

"Like me thou lovest woods and streams, 
Like me thou hast thy waking dreams, 
Like me thou longest for a life 
Afar from hate and pride and strife, 
A life in which the law of love 
Should govern all, as those above. 
In thought allied, in heart alike. 
No wonder, then that I should strike 
The magic chords of sympathy 
With my erratic minstrelsy. 
And thy response so sweetly sounds, 
In these my loved yet lonely grounds. 
That thoughts long banished now return, 
And new emotions I discern. 
I think how pleasant it would be 
To visit Nature's haunts with thee, 
And hear the music which the trees 
Awaken in the passing breeze. 
Or listen to the fairy song 
As endless waters glide along. 
Or gather from each wild retreat 
The hidden blossom fair and sweet. 
And far more pleasant still to me. 
As oft we loitered aimlessly 
In wildest nooks without a fear, 
Would be thy converse making dear 
All spots where we had ling'ring stood. 
In meadow green or leafy wood. 
Or on the far-off mountain crest 
To watch at eve the glowing west. 

"But this, O friend, can never be. 
So I afar must think of thee, 
And view thee dimly through the days, 
So often dark, and give thee praise 
For all thou art, for all I see 
Thou seekest earnestly to be. 
If every one but understood. 
Then might we wander where we would; 
But in a world to wrong allied 



BUTTONWOOD. 37 

The innocent are oft denied 

Their kindest, best society, 

That unsuspected they may be. 

Nor is it wisdom to rebel 

Against a custom ordered well 

To check the false, and guard the true, 

And give fair Virtue all her due. 

So if we wisely love and well. 

Still far apart we both must dwell, 

Or meet as those who only feel 

The selfishness they would conceal, 

And who, in their contracted view. 

All but the practical eschew. 

"So wonder not if I seem cold. 
And treat thee often as of old. 
My tastes are womanly— my mind 
Affects the simple and refined, 
And like true Muse I gladly flee 
The world's turmoil and misery, 
And walk in life's secluded ways, 
Indifferent to blame or praise, 
Except from them whom love may move 
My course to censure or approve. 
And I, with Fancy's plastic hand. 
Have fashioned an ideal land, 
Where dwell the fair and good and dear 
That worthy of my love appear; 
And there I spend my quiet hours, 
Like child among the vernal flowers. 
So wonder not if thou shouldst find 
The chill reserve, the vacant mind. 
But deem me all the time sincere. 
And know that thou hast naught to fear. 
Left to myself I little feel, 
Or else my kinder thoughts conceal, 
And range in fairy solitudes. 
Where never vain regret intrudes 
To mar the peace which there is mine. 
And which I wish were ever thine. 



38 BUTTONWOOD. 

"Our paths diverge — in separate ways 
We two must pass the thorny maze, 
Debarred from spending sunny hours 
Together with the birds and flowers, 
Till in the west the sinking sun 
Reminded that the day was done, 
And made us murmur that more fleet 
Time should become when life is sweet. 

"Be not discouraged — all around 
Each faithful one is holy ground, 
And messengers unseen are sent 
To help us when our strength is spent. 
The visible in which our thought 
Is often centered is as naught 
Compared with that immortal sphere 
Whose confines reach us even here. 
O valued friend, whom I must love 
For what thou wouldst be, look above! 
Within that cloudless ether blue 
Once disappeared from human view 
The Wondrous One to whom we raise 
The holiest anthem of our praise. 
He too, a pilgrim spent on earth 
The years between his lowly birth 
And that dread hour when on the tree 
He suffered, died for thee and me, 
In journeys sad and loneliness 
More dreary far than words express; 
Nowhere on earth a kindred mind 
This man of sorrows e'er could find; 
For who his thought could comprehend, 
Or with his boundless spirit blend? 
To God and man alike allied, 
Alone he lived, alone he died. 
The sympathy whose want he knew 
He gives to all the ages through; 
He comes to us our truest friend. 
And bids us higher paths ascend. 
He causes doubt and fear to cease, 



BUTTONWOOD. 

And fills us with his perfect peace, 

He leads us gently by the hand, 

Till on the heavenly mount we stand. 

' 'Our paths diverge, but they shall meet 
Where brighter scenes our eyes shall greet; 
Then, banished every fear of ill, 
We shall our dearest hopes fulfil, 
For in that realm of light afar 
We shall be as the angels are, 
And all the bliss on earth foretold 
Shall realize a thousand fold. 
Still if for human sympathy 
And human friendship pure and free 
Thy heart in secret often sighs 
Till tears bedew thy gentle eyes, 
Accept the humble gift I bring. 
Assured that only truth I sing 
When I confess how near allied 
I feel to thee on friendship's side. 
And how I wish, though years may fly. 
Our mutual trust may never die, 
But strengthen, till in heaven above 
Our friendship ends in perfect love." 

So sang my Muse in other days 
In hope a tender soul to raise 
From out the gloom that like a pall 
Sometimes enfolds and chills us all. 
She gained her end, and cheered the heart 
Of one who took a transient part 
In life and love, then bade adieu 
To all we linger here to view. 

Thus, Buttonwood, these thoughts I find 
Far other things recall to mind. 
That disconnected, yet allied, 
Before my saddened fancy glide. 
I think of thee, and quickly rise 
Unnumbered scenes before my eyes. 
At first all vague and strangely mixed, 



39 



40 BUTTONWOOD. 

But soon distinct in order fixed; 
Sweet pictures of my childish hours, 
Enwreathed with mem'ry 's fairest flowers ; 
And images of later years 
When hope was yet remote from fears. 
Yes, Buttonwood, how much in thee 
I find that stirs fond memory 
To paint her faded scenes anew. 
And bring the hidden past to view, 
To call up Hope's forgotten dream 
When life was still a placid stream. 
And arch the bow of promise high 
Again across life's morning sky, 
And cause once more Ambition's ear 
Those yet delicious sounds to hear 
Which youth imagined came afar 
From glorious Fame's triumphal car. 
But why again recount the years 
Bedewed so oft with memory's tears? 
No! be their tombs forever sealed. 
And let me without murmur yield 
To those decrees of destiny. 
Which, ruling all, omit not me. 

This life is but a changeful day, 
And swift its moments glide away. 
The merry morn delights our eyes 
With dewy flowers ahd pearly skies, 
The noon beholds us bent in toil, 
Or surging in the world's turmoil; 
Of all soon weary we repine, 
And long to see the sun decline; 
The evening comes with sombre sky 
But finds us unprepared — to die! 
Then why the rage for wealth and fame — 
A heap of gold, a fleeting name? 
Why struggle we so hard for what 
We know can satisfy us not? 
Better avoid the useless strife, 
And turn us to a higher life, 



BUTTONWOOD. 41 

And seek the things that give us peace, 
And our unfading joys increase. 

Dear Buttonwood, may peace be thine, 
And light of hope within thee shine, 
Be thine amid the fickle years 
A happiness that never fears, 
And may thy bowers be ever green 
Till Time shall bring the closing scene, 
And thy last inmate leaves thy door, 
To seek thy shelter nevermore ! 

But, Buttonwood, perhaps too long 
I make this unpretentious song, 
Which wanders like some lonely bird 
That in the autumn may be heard 
Repeating fragments of the tune 
With which it welcomed smiling June, 
Mingled with melancholy strains 
Suggested by the dreary plains 
And naked hills o'er which it flies, 
And for their summer splendor sighs. 
Yet hard it is to say farewell — 
Sad word that like a funeral knell 
Falls ever painful on the ear 
And in the soul re-echoes drear. 
Yet, I repeat; may peace be thine, • 
And Joy for thee her garlands twine; 
And in the future far and dim, 
O cherish still a thought of him 
Who often in the days to come. 
Though destined far from thee to roam, 
In fancy will revisit thee. 
Still mindful of the sympathy 
That bade him come a frequent guest, 
To seek thy shade and grateful rest. 
And should my life attain the years 
The Psalmist crowns with toil and tears, 
May I have gained a safe retreat 
Like thine to rest my weary feet, 



42 BUTTONWOOD. 

Where memory musing o'er the past 
May give me pleasure to the last, 
And win my mind from vacancy 
By oft recurring thoughts of thee. 




ELLEMWOLD. 



43 



ELLEMWOLD. 

O look upon that crystal sea, 
Far in the dim futurity, 

Where tempests never sweep, 
But where the bright waves rise and fall, 
Obedient to the zephyr's call, 

Along the sunny deep. 

In fond embrace its waters hold 
The lovely isle of Ellemwold, 

To hope forever dear. 
Queen of all isles! its peaceful shore 
A spring-like summer mantles o'er. 

With blessings all the year. 

The softest beams of orient light 

Play round its wood-crowned mountain hight. 

And o'er its fadeless bowers; 
Its gentle skies the twilight through 
Shed fragrant drops of pearly dew 

Upon its sleeping flowers. 

More beautiful than famed Cashmere, 
Or Tempe's vale to poets dear, 

Or Paradise of old, 
Not Milton's muse from Eden sent 
Nor all the powers to Raphael lent 

Could picture Ellemwold. 

O how my soul with wild delight 

Was thrilled when first within my sight 

This isle of beauty came, 
For, lo, it was the bright ideal 
Of all my dreams become the real, 

Another, yet the same. 



44 ELLEMWOLD. 

Ye dreams of beauty, love, and joy, 
Not you shall wasting years destroy, 

Or force to pass away; 
Thought is eternal, and the mind 
Its visions realized shall find 

In forms without decay. 

At last, before our longing eyes. 
Our sweet ideals will arise 

From out the graves of time; 
All deathless then will meet our view 
The beautiful and good and true, 

The glorious and sublime. 

The sympathy here vainly sought, 
The love unchanging and unbought. 

The friendship pure and warm, 
As sweet realities will come 
To beautify our future home, 

And all in perfect form. 

Alas! for him who fails to find 
One candid, sympathizing mind 

Or one true-hearted friend; 
More lone he feels amid the crowd 
Than where the tempest rages loud 

And skies and waters blend. 

For he who sails upon the main. 
Or wanders on the desert plain. 

Or in the pathless woods, 
With Nature's self can converse hold, 
And view her mystic scroll unrolled 

Or watch her changing moods. 

But isolation is the lot 

Of him who seeks, all else forgot, 

Truth's holy mount to climb; 
He leaves the mob on Folly's plain. 
And mounts the steep with toil and pain 

To Virtue's hight sublime. 



ELLEMWOLD. 45 

But in that silent, cloudless air, 
Though beautiful are all things there, 

His soul must dwell alone; 
His cherished thoughts none understand. 
Except the One whose gracious hand 

Life's upward path has shown. 

There yearnings strong beyond control 
For sympathy rise in his soul. 

And melancholy reigns. 
While from the lower world upborne 
A voice repeats in bitter scorn, 

O fool, for all thy pains! 

Oh, cruel fate ! when sundered far 
From sympathy we wage a war 

Against the powers allied 
To circumvent each generous plan 
Designed to lift the soul of man 

From ignorance and pride. 

Oh, cruel fate ! when whom we love 
We strive to elevate above 

This world's ignoble aims, 
We find our plans misunderstood, 
And evil rendered for our good. 

And scorned our highest claims. 

But this the cruelest of all 

That can the human heart appall, 

And rend it with despair, — 
To have the friend we've trusted long 
Turn on us with despite and wrong. 

And hatred's visage wear. 

But noble minds will hide their grief, 
And from its tortures find relief 

In hopes that constant rise 
To cheer us in the gloomy night. 
And bid us wait the morning light 

That soon will greet our eyes. 



46 ELLEMWOLD. 

Though faulted much, misunderstood, 
And deemed devoid of every good. 

They hold their faith the same, 
That time will yet evolve the true. 
And give all patient hearts their due. 

And crown each higher aim. 

But who so willingly a fool 

As he who failing in life's school 

His given task to learn. 
Sighs then for death to give release, 
Determined here to banish peace 

And hinder hope's return? 

Then in the gloomiest hour of life, 
Imbittered by the ceaseless strife 

With error and with wrong, 
When on the billows thou art tossed 
And all to fearful eyes is lost, 

Let hope be doubly strong. 

Let not the tempter force thy soul 
To yield herself to his control. 

But on thy faith rely; 
Close all the avenues to sin. 
And thou the victory shalt win, 

And every foe shall fly. 

Not here we see the final Cause 
That urges Nature's rigid laws. 

Nor comprehend the scheme, 
But we believe the gracious plan 
Includes the happiness of man. 

Though hopeless all may seem. 

We wait until the troubled maze 
Of Being opens to our gaze, 

And Life is understood; 
Then will our wondering eyes perceive 
What now reluctant we believe. 

Our evil works for good. 



ELLEMWOLD. 

The Cycle has at length revolved, 
The Mystery at last is solved, 

And all may read who can! 
We'll take the cup of happiness, 
And bid our lips foi^ever bless 

The One who formed the plan. 

Within this isle in safety rest 
The sorrow-stricken and unblest, 

Soothed by delights untold; 
And youth may bloom but never die, 
And hearts may love but never sigh 

Within sweet Ellemwold. 

This isle was formed for thee and me 
In fairy beauty in that sea 

Where tempests never come; 
Far from displeasing sight or sound. 
Embosomed in a vale is found 

Our dreamland's happy home. 

The bell which notes our golden years. 
The bell which memory sadly hears, 

Has for the last been tolled; 
Then let us, ere the fatal Three 
Shall cut the thread of destiny. 

Seek out this Ellemwold. 

Loose anchor from this dreary shore. 
With life's sad wrecks all scattered o'er, 

And spread our sails anew; 
Hope crushed and bleeding never dies, — 
Behold her from the dust arise, 

Still to her purpose true. 

Hushed is the tempest fierce and loud. 
The light pours through the rifted cloud 

In streams of molten gold; 
The troubled ocean soon we'll leave, 
Already near us we perceive 

That tranquil sea foretold. 



47 



48 ELLEMWOLD. 

Let bitter memories of the past, 
With all the darkness round us cast, 

Into oblivion fly; — 
Thanks for the glorious prospect now, — 
The crown of joy awaits our brow. 

Bright Ellemwold is nigh! 

Now through the waves with rippling sound 
Our frail bark nears the region crowned 

With amaranthine bowers; 
A few leagues more, and we shall land 
Upon the beach's golden sand. 

And Ellemwold be ours! 

Blow stronger, O ye favoring gales. 
With eager speed fill all our sails, 

And bring us to the shore! 
We touch — we land — with hearts elate 
We enter Joy's uplifted gate 

To pass without no more. 



AUTUMNAL, MUSINGS. 49 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 



I, RADNOR. 

I'm in old Radnor! 'Tis to me a place 
Sacred above all others; here my eyes 

First saw the light of heaven and the face 
Of that best friend, my mother; here the skies 

Seemed ever lovely, as amid the bowers 

Of summer I beguiled my childish hours. 

No other home on earth can be so sweet 
As that in which our consciousness begins, 

And love and hope in one existence meet 
To share alike the good that either wins. 

The brightest thoughts of life are treasured there, 

And memory guards the trust with ceaseless care. 

Radnor, though to some thy quiet vales 
And rocky hills have little to commend. 

And other lands are praised for brighter dales 
And woodlands vast where grace and beauty blend, 

1 fondly think of thee where'er I roam; 
Thou art my natal ground, my earliest home. 

Within thy groves and on thy meadows green 
My infant feet first loitered, and my eyes 

First learned to trace the beauties ever seen 
In nature, and my mind first strove to rise 

From out the visible and fleeting here 

To Him who sits above the crystal sphere. 



50 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

Now after years of absence I've returned — 
Years of far wandering and constant change — 

To greet thee with the accents which I learned 
From my loved parents. O how passing strange 

The mingling of the old and new this morn, 

As here I rest awhile where I was born! 

O glorious morning! who can sing thy power 
To waken life and hope within the soul, 

Or paint the splendors of thy regal hour, 
When nature yields once more to thy control? 

An inspiration and a joy thou art 

To all who love thee with a simple heart. 

Thgi sun is up, and o'er the hilltop brown 
His mellow beams fall slanting on the trees. 

While here and there the leaves and thistle down 
Whirl in the eddies of the south-west breeze. 

It is in drear November, but the glow 

Of Indian summer brightens all below. 

A few long bars of red and purple cloud, 
Deep fringed with gold, across the eastern sky 

Lie motionless. The sun appears to crowd 
Upon them with his disk of ruddy dye. 

Which much enlarged, and freed from dazzling light. 

And glare of summer, is a pleasing sight. 

The haze of autumn fills the ambient air. 
And vails all distant objects in its gray; 

Along the streams that course the meadows bare 
Faint forms of mist like sprites of midnight stray, 

And, as I gaze, upon the breeze they rise, 

And slowly vanish in the amber skies. 

October's winds and rains soon stripped the wood 

Of all the beauty that September gave 
Of varied color; but the oaks withstood 

The ruthless storms, their flaunting leaves to save. 
They, with the cedars, lift their heads in air, 
Like giant chiefs that all their armor wear. 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 51 

The flowers have drooped and died, the gentle race 
That through the spring and summer cheered my 
heart, 

And through th' early autumn; now their place 
Is vacant; late I saw the last depart. 

Their wilted stems a mournful sight will lie, 

Till by the snow they're buried from the eye. 

II, THE BIRDS. 

The sweet south-west has spent its playful force, 
And all is silent now, save yonder rill 

Whose waters murmur o'er their pebbly course. 
A moment more — I hear the blue jay from the hill; 

There on a tall and slender chestnut tree, 

He hoarsely scolds, and wakes the echoes free. 

The flicker and the nuthatch too I hear 
From out the timber, and the wary crow 

Circles around the corn-shocks standing near, 
And early snow-birds by the roadside show 

Their winter plumage, as they hunt the seeds 

Scattered among the grass and fallen weeds. 

How dear to me is every sight and sound 1 
For these plumed denizens of woods and fields 

Appear like cherished friends long lost now found. 
And what a pleasure this reunion yields 

Of bird and poet on this autumn day. 

When dreamy thought resumes its olden sway. 

The jay has flown, but here some robins come, 
And perch upon the cedars at my right; 

Save a sharp chirp, eaeh redbreast now is dumb. 
Food is their only care, and soon their flight 

They'll take to climes beyond stern winter's reign, 

And greet the sun o'er many a southern plain. 

Of all the birds that animate the grove, 

Or cheer with melody the haunts of men, 
Thou, Robin, art the one that most I love; 



52 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

And in the radiance of the spring-time, when 
The whitened orchards scent the genial air, 
No other music can with thine compare. 

But, Robin, in the melancholy day 
Of autumn must thy tuneful voice be still? 

For Summer dead hast thou no fitting lay 
To mingle with the dirges of the rill? 

Ah, no! thy song's the echo of the Spring, 

And only in her smile thy heart would sing. 

That heart, perchance, is like my own this morn, 
Filled with sad memories of the parting year. 

And faded hopes that in the spring were born, 
And decked my young life, then serene and clear, 

Now often darker than the clouds that fly 

Upon the storm that sweeps the wintry sky. 

Yet sometimes when a sunny day appears. 
Straying from out the spring into the fall, 

And with its warmth wan drooping nature cheers, 
I've heard thee, robin, drop thy plaintive call. 

And fill the welkin with a joyous sound, 

Forgetful of the desolation round. 

And such a day methinks will this one be, 
A day of sunshine to the eye and soul, 

Bringing to view sweet scenes of infancy, 
With hill and rock and stream and flowery knoll, 

And leading forth those youthful forms once more 

That played with me in merry days of yore. 

m. THE LANDSCAPE. 

The sun mounts higher, 'tis a fitting time, 
The world shut out, to lose one's self in dreams 

And gentle memories. But this hill I'll climb, 
And view the landscape in the morning beams. 

I've gained the top, and on a mossy stone 

I set me down to gaze and muse alone. 



AUTUMNALi MUSINGS. 53 

Before me in the sunlight far away 
Southward the cultured fields of Newtown lie, 

And eastward, gilded by the morning ray, 
The rugged farms of Easttown greet mine eye; 

In Chester this, in Delaware that is found, 

Two counties that in rural joys abound. 

I like the prospect, though the flowers are gone, 
And nature to the careless eye is dead. 

And all seems desolate to gaze upon; 
For even in the naked boughs o'erhead 

What graceful forms and lines I see revealed— 

The beauties that their summer robes concealed. 

Unlike the city with its noisome streets 
And cramped up houses, is the scene I view. 

Here the pleased fancy her own picture meets 
In Nature's groups and action, form and hue. 

O'er all the eye delighted wanders slow, 

And notes each object in the morning glow. 

The beautiful is here in earth and sky. 

Appealing to each gazer's mind and heart, 

And giving glimpses of the depths that lie, 
And the vast heights unreached by limning art. 

For who a single tree has yet portrayed. 

Or with his brush the tints of morning laid? 

rV. THE SEASONS. 

I like, in all the seasons, every scene 

Where traces of divinity are found. 
Where man's work does not wholly intervene 

To shut out every natural sight and sound: 
I love the winter's drapery of snow. 
The Spring's rich bloom, the Summer's fervid glow. 

And thee I love, O June, whose pearly skies 
And blushing roses charmed my boyish heart. 

And now, in later years, whose azure eyes 
Bewitch me yet; nor will it soon depart, 



54 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

The spell thou hast around me, thou most dear 
Of all the daughters of the changing year. 

Ah! once my fancies seemed realities, 
As wandering in thy woods or by thy streams, 

I listened to the murmur of thy bees, 
Or saw at sunset hour thy magic beams 

Transform the landscape to a glorious sight. 

Like that where angels dwell in holy light. 

But most I love the hazy autumn days, 
When leaves are gayest and the later flowers 

Still deck the meadows, and the yellow rays 
Of sunshine glimmer through the woodland bowers, 

And gaudy warblers from the Northland come, 

Threading our forests on their passage home, — 

The days when nature sits upon her throne. 
In royal robes of richest purple dressed. 

And wonders of magnificence are shown 
Like those within the Islands of the Blest, — 

These are my choice of all the retinue 

Led by the sun his yearly circuit through. 

How often did I, in the years long past, 

Upon such days go forth to gratify 
My taste for autumn scenery. Then I cast 

Away all worldly feeling, putting by 
The cares of life, and giving fancy wing. 
Till like the blithe lark she would soar and sing. 

Some chosen spots had I in those bright days. 
Where frequently I rambled, and allowed 

My soul to dwell with Nature and her ways 
Admire, oblivious of the noisy crowd. 

I well remember one — a meadow wide 

Spreading along the forest's southern side. 

A brook with alders skirted flowed along 
The woodland, singing to the open day. 
Or murmuring in the shade its endless song. 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 55 

It was a lonely spot, as some would say; 
But who where nature smiles can lonely be 
Lacks yet fit culture for society. 

There, in the spring, the violets first were found, 
There in the fall the latest asters stood, 

There, culling blossoms, I have wandered round. 
Or musing lingered in the shady wood. 

O happy autumns, rich in golden dreams, 

How sweetly sad to-day your memory seems! 

V. MEDITATION. 

Full many an hour beneath some spreading tree 
Have I reclined without a single care. 

And there consigned myself to reverie, 
With fancies formless as the misty air, 

Till like a leaf upon the waters tossed, 

In thought's infinity I wandered lost. 

And as I lay under the sheltering tree, 

Through the cleft branches I would turn mine eye, 
And gaze upon that silent mystery. 

The blue and boundless ocean of the sky. 
Whose ships are clouds that sail the earth around, 
A restless fleet that to no port is bound. 

A silent mystery the sky I call. 

Yet silence has a meaning, and T felt. 
As long I gazed upon the azure, all 

That can the heart with gentle speeches melt 
To tenderness; then yearned I for the pure 
And good that everlastingly endure. 

What are these longings?— all this strange unrest, 

This turning to the Infinite alone? — 
That have their place in every feeling breast, 

And, like the billow, make continual moan? 
Is it the plaining of a homeless soul. 
Exiled to time and under earth's control? 



56 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

Returning then to self and consciousness, 

I'd find the mysteries of Being rise, 
And eager on my startled spirit press 

For their solution: I would close my eyes, 
Till reason, weary of the fruitless toil. 
Upon herself would hopelessly recoil. 

Glad then I'd look upon the world without. 
Away from the invisible — look on the face 

Of smiling Nature: she without a doubt 
Was real; she, respondent to the place 

Of sense and feeling, gave to me delight, 

Pilling my soul with scenes of beauty bright. 

And now I come these visions to renew. 
To live the dead but unforgotten Past again. 

O'erhead the morning sky is still as blue. 
As pure and balmy is the air, as when 

I courted nature in the olden time, 

And hope's wild bells rang out their sweetest chime. 

Our day-dreams are the bright effulgence cast 
Down from the summits of perpetual joy. 

Which we shall scale triumphantly at last, 
Forever purified from earth's alloy; 

Then mysteries so long from all concealed 

In light ineffable will stand revealed. 

VI. NATURE. 

I was the youngest of our family 

By near ten years. The rest to manhood grown, 
Or womanhood, could have no sympathy 

With childhood's reveries; so left alone, 
Companionship I sought in field and grove 
With Nature, whom I early learned to love. 

I wandered with my charmer everywhere. 
Morn, noon, and eve, in sunshine or in shade; 

And in her cloud-roofed temple of the air 
Homage sincere my eager spirit paid, 



AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 57 

Till reverence for her and silent praise 
Became the worship of my early days. 

But I was formed for gentleness and peace, 
And only with her smiles could nature charm; 

Her frowns made all my admiration cease, 
And filled my breast with tremors of alarm: 

With dread I saw the lurid lightnings fly, 

As the loud thunder shook the earth and sky. 

Since then I've loved such elemental strife, 
(Oft custom makes us love the thing once feared,) 

I've felt a joy when furious storms were rife. 
Or horrid War his bloody standard reared, 

When the red bolts of heaven to earth were hurled, 

Or deadly cannon startled half the world. 

Filled with her inspiration oft I sketched 
Bright pictures of my future, lovelier far 

Than all the autumn landscape she had stretched 
Before me; crowned with amaranth the car 

Of fame I mounted, and was named and praised 

By countless thousands who with wonder gazed. 

And thus began my dream-life, and the wild 
And beauteous fancies that the poets bind 

To word and measure came to me a child. 
Filling with admiration all my mind; 

And scarcely knowing yet or verse or rhyme, 

I joyed in all things lovely or sublime. 

VII, THE MORAL. 

This is the lesson that I daily learn, 
As I behold the world of constant change: 

Never despair, but from the darkness turn. 
And let thy spirit in the future range, 

Then olden joys from out their graves will rise. 

And golden sunshine cover all the skies. 

For him who to his better self is true, 
The brighter future in the present dawns; 



58 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

Instead of clouds the heavens serene and blue, 

Instead of waste green meads and flowery lawns 
Await his smile, if he but dry his tears, 
Rise in his strength, and banish all his fears. 

The probable is mine and all beside 
That man has e'er accomplished, even more 

Than the most daring of our race has tried 
I may attain, and reach the farthest shore 

Of truth and joy, there make my anchor fast, 

And of Columbuses become the first and last. 

Mine is eternity in which to work 

Out all the good a finite being can. 
No failures, then, nor wily foes that lurk 

For my destruction shall my plan 
E'er thwart, or fill my soul with craven fears; 
Light springs from darkness, heaven from sorrow's 
tears. 

Vm. CONSOLATION. 

There is an inspiration in the scenes 
Of genial nature that oft fills the soul, 

Dispelling every cloud that intervenes 
Between ourselves and the receding goal 

Of expectation. Light again returns, 

And in the fresh pursuit our ardor burns. 

How often when with weary, downcast mind, 
I looked in vain for Hope's sweet, sunny face, 

Have I the scenes of men left far behind. 
And sought the silence of some lonely place. 

Deep hidden in the shadows of the grove. 

Where free from all intrusion I could rove. 

Years, years ago, on the far distant hills 
Inclosing Somerset with oak and pine. 

Ere yet the gentians by the meadow rills 
Yielded their azure to the cold malign, 

I took my way in bitterness of thought 

And the seclusion of the woodlands sought. 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 59 

As here and there my aimless steps I bent 

Amid the trees luxuriantly that grew, 
Soon was I on their graceful forms intent, 

And quiet pleasure from their beauty drew, 
Till all forgetful of each gloomy care, 
I lived in golden light and balmy air. 

And as the sunshine glimmered through the screen 
Of many-colored leaves touched by the frost, 

A little bird enraptured by the scene, 
A reminiscence of the Eden lost, 

Burst forth into a song that seemed to be 

A prophecy of endless peace to me. 

We never know what trials we can bear 
Until we feel their weight upon the soul, 

Then, though in anguish, we a smile can wear, 
Like water sparkling o'er a rocky shoal, 

And in appearance even gladsome be. 

When we are plunged in deepest misery. 

Full many a trouble that had been my dread, 
Though only possible to me it seemed, 

When to it I by destiny was led. 
Was finally of little moment deemed; 

So facile are our natures to conform 

Themselves unto the winter and the storm. 

Brave spirits are elastic, and they rise 

Above the cruel strokes of destiny; 
Aspiring ever unto cloudless skies. 

From fell despair to winsome hope they flee, 
And find a home within that beauteous land 
Themselves create upon life's barren strand. 

IX. ASPIRATION. 

Why must our hopes outrun fulfilment? We 
Are forced to gaze upon the un attained, 

Like mariners hurled by the angry sea 
Upon a naked rock, where they have gained 



60 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

A respite brief from death, while in the skies 
Mirage of fertile shores deceive their eyes. 

We live false lives — Society enslaves 
How many souls whose natural heritage 

Is freedom, and the one who fearless braves 
The cruel tyrant, and redeems the age 

From social chains, will gain himself a crown 

More precious far than Valor's red renown. 

We wear our fetters, and we ceaseless toil 

Our artificial wants to satisfy. 
We murmur daily at our prison toil, 

Yet hug our chains until at last we die. 
What good accomplished? — Oh, how vain 
Is human life spent all for sensuous gain! 

Better to walk in Nature's narrow way. 
And give the body only that much care 

Which rugged health demands from day to day, 
With simplest food its constant waste repair, 

The plainest garments choose that art can name 

To shield from cold and cover up our shame. 

To eat, to drink, to dress with barbarous taste, 
To make a formal call, to bandy words 

Of trivial politeness, or to waste 
Our hours of leisure on the restless herds 

Of idlers that infest each social scene, — 

Is scarce a reasonable life, I ween. 

More than the body is the mind of man, 
And therefore should receive the greater care, 

To know, to speak, to act the best we can. 
Ills unavoidable with hope to bear, — 

For this let us arouse our sluggish powers. 

And soon or late the victory is ours. 

A little cot beneath the stately trees, 

Thatshield from Summer's heat and Winter's storm, 
A quiet nook where simple life with ease 



AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 61 

Can unto Nature's various moods conform, 
Is all man needs for home-like shelter here, 
Where he can pass secure the changing year. 

True industry is that which counts the cost 

Of all things it endeavors to secure, 
And dreads lest precious moments should be lost 

In seeking riches that cannot endure; 
The things that never peri sh are its care. 
Wisdom divine and Virtue ever fair. 

Our soul's ideals let us keep in view. 
For they are harbingers of golden days, 

Inviting us to force our passage through 
The present world's entangled thorny maze, 

And in the glorious future shall appear, 

The good and beautiful we see not here. 

Even on the earth do Wisdom's children find 
A foretaste of the heaven for which they sigh. 

Whose peace refreshing fills the child-like mind. 
Whose joys inspiring all around them lie; 

Life's precious chalice is our own to fill 

With bitterness or sweetness as we will. 

Our lives are linked with Nature, and all things 
Created claim our praise or sympathy, 

And every one with us an offering brings 
Unto the altar of a common destiny; 

They work for good to us, and in the end 

Their immortality with ours may blend. 

Man is the center of creation, all for him 
Exists, and he for God, whose perfect scheme, 

Set forth in types to us and shadows dim. 
Appears more wondrous than the wildest dream; 

And as a diamond to a mound of earth. 

So man to suns is of superior worth. 

For him the Christ upon Mount Calvary 

Poured out the precious blood that saves from sin, 
Enduring shame and untold agony. 



62 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

That life eternal faithful souls might win, 
And crowns of righteousness henceforth belong 
And endless rapture to the blood-washed throng. 

X. CHILDHOOD. 

It is a common notion of mankind 
That life is sweetest, happiest in its spring, 

Because in looking back we call to mind 
Instinctively the pleasures, and we bring 

Ourselves to thinking that the pains were none, 

And into self-deception thus we run. 

I cannot always trust the tales that come 
From Memory's lips. Schooled by Romance, 

She speaks, and shadowy forms long dumb 
Burst into witching song or lead the dance: 

Changed to a vista of delight appears 

The thorny path of far receded years. 

Yet I can truly say of Childhood's morn. 
That its fair scenes were what they now appear. 

For many a lovely rose without a thorn, 
Was mine, and many a hope without a fear; 

And battling now to free the souls of men, 

And downcast oft, I'd be a child again. 

My first years spent in Radnor, then to thee, 
Tredyffrin, came I in the spring-time mild, 

With simple heart that joyed in all things free, 
A lover of the beautiful and wild. 

Confiding, hopeful, watching Nature's ways, 

Unlearned in books, those friends of later days. 

I well remember when my father moved. 
With mother, sister, and our household goods, 

And me his youngest and most dearly loved, 
To our new home beside the chestnut woods. 

It stood half-hidden by two cherry trees, 

Whose blossoms scented then the vernal breeze. 



AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 63 

The house looked south, its walls were mica slate, 
The front was narrow, on the eastern side 

A long piazza faced the garden gate: 
A rural manse, where resting place for pride 

Was found not, but content could come 

And have beneath its roof a genial home. 

In that abode where want and luxury, 
With all their evils were alike unknown. 

With food and clothing in sufficiency. 
And needed care to mind and morals shown, 

I passed my boyhood till, become a man. 

In the wide world life's struggle I began. 

XI. RAMBLES. 

Fair and romantic was the neighborhood, 
Varied with hills and dales on every side; 

Far-stretching north and east the forest stood 
Of oak and chestnut in their sylvan pride. 

While laurels clustering thick upon the ground, 

Or arching o'er the winding paths were found. 

Here warblers of gay tint and sprightly song 
Came numerous in the Summer, Spring or Fall, 

Making the woodlands vocal all day long 
With joy's wild note or love's sweet plaintive call, 

While from his covert oft the rabbit strayed, 

Or whirring pheasant darted from the shade. 

To me these woods seemed full of mysteries. 
As I explored their depths with curious awe, 

Or lay upon the moss beneath the trees, 
And pondered silently on all I saw. 

The beautiful I sought in all around, 

And what I sought in everything I found. 

Soon in my lonely rambles I had grown 
Familiar with each flower and tree and bird, 

Each moss-grown rock and even every stone, 
And all the varied sounds in woodland heard, 



64 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

Prom the faint murmur of the hidden rill, 
To the loud boom of grouse upon the hill. 

All these by sight or sound, if not by name, 
I knew, for I was then in books unread, 

And ignorant of jargons that men claim 
As science, which, from many a foolish head. 

Issue in learned words or pompous phrase 

That fill the thoughtless hearer with amaze. 

I learned to use the pencil, and acquired 
A measure of the skill of limning art 

To reproduce the forms and colors I admired. 
Preserving thus their loveliness in part. 

And in the effort gained increase of sight 

To view the handiwork of God aright. 

Thus was my heart attuned to harmony 
With the great world of Being, as I stood 

Upon the threshold of its mystery; 
And looking upon every work as good. 

That power divine had wrought, soon was I led 

To know and love great Nature's Source and Head. 

Call ye such life the idler's? I reply 
That this was my best training, and the way 

To grow in strength and fairest symmetry. 
The seeds of all good purposes that lay 

Within my soul were started, took firm root, 

And bore in after years their wonted fruit. 

Who is the idler but the one who toils 
To gather wealth he needs not? — thus to fill 

His armory of life with golden foils 
To fight a foe he never sees nor will. 

He wastes his time with things he does not use, 

But stores them up for others to abuse. 

XII. A SUBJECT. 

I want a subject — one to serve as text 
For numerous stanzas. I can finish one 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 65 

Without a special theme; but then the next 
And sundry more cannot be easily done 
Without a subject. I shall look around, 
For some suggestive thing can soon be found. 

Byron, I think, — I do not read his verse, 
But saw this in an extract — somewhere speaks.. 

In the Childe Harold or a poem worse, 
Of certain poets that were surely freaks 

Of nature, for they never rhymed nor brought 

To light in any shape a single thought. 

Such poets had no pressing need, I ween 
Of subjects or of objects for their muse, — 

No need the well-raked fields of thought to glean. 
Or into withered leaves fresh life infuse. 

For one and all silence they had alone, 

And but for Byron they had died unknown. 

If this be true — I rather doubt it though — 

How grandly eloquent may often be 
The poetry of silence, and the flow 

Of human speech when words are still! To me 
Has Nature been less partial: I must write. 
Erase, rewrite, before my lines are dight. 

I've ended the last stanza with a word, 

A monosyllable, now obsolete. 
Of which the reader may have ne\er heard: 

I tacked it on to make the rhyme complete. 
"Dight to prepare" says good authority; 
This bit of information I give free. 

Perhaps the reader does not like my style. 
Or thinks the things expressed are rather trite. 

If so, please pity me before you smile; 
It is no common toil for me to write: 

I am no poet born; nor constant well 

The founts of song like waters in the dell. 

I'm working at my best ability, 
And if you're wearied just upon the start, 



G6 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

Then put my rugged verse aside: you're free, 

And so am I; and I for my own part 
Will labor on, and do the best I may. 
The choice is mine — I'll write for many a day. 

But then I want a subject — one that's named. 

'Tis hard to write without a special theme; 
My Pegasus as yet has not been tamed; 

And void of subject rather odd may seem 
My cantos. I'll not court a silent muse. 
Rather the amaranth of fame I'd lose. 

Yes, I am somewhat choice about a name; 

One neither very short nor very long 
Will serve my purpose best. Rather too tame 

Are monosyllables for stately song, 
And hard to manage are long words like that 
Which two lines back comes in so smooth and pat. 

"There's nothing in a name," so Shakespeare said, 
But I am forced to think the poet lied, 

Or if you deem me by that phrase ill bred, 
Please change it then to this: the point's denied. 

There's magic in a name: most men are known 

To reverence names more than Jehovah's throne. 

There's magic in a name, and with the crowd 
Name and idea, word and thing are one. 

Go to the rabble, call the charm aloud; 
How quickly to the potent sound they run. 

Ring but the changes — every act you do 

Is godlike, every lie you tell is true! 

There's magic in a name: the simple sound 
Of cherished ones by demagogues is used 

To lead our thoughtless masses, and is found 
A power for ill. Freedom is thus abused: 

Thousands bewitched by this word have been known 

To blast their country's welfare and their own. 

There's magic in a name: go turn your eyes 

To sunny France, pronounce Napoleon:* 

* Written when Louis Napoleon was Emperor. 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 67 

From heart to heart the thrilling' echo flies 

Of that by which an empire has been won! 
Yes, millions by the wonder-working power 
Of that great name are governed every hour. 

Am I digressing from my theme? Well then, 
I beg the reader's pardon, — 'tis a fault 

Common to all who use the tongue or pen, 
And few there are that care at once to vault 

Upon their topic; they must wander round, 

View it askance, and map the neighboring ground. 

Besides, I have not yet the subject named 
Which I at starting should have had in mind ; 

Then, after all, let me not much be blamed; 
I'll reach my text in time: so reader kind, 

Bear with my past deflections, and I'll make 

But few in future for the Muse's sake. 

XIII, SAINT DAVID'S CHURCH. 

Below me south upon a small plateau. 
Sheltered by cedars and begirt with tombs. 

Stands a stone house to which the people go 
At stated times to worship. It assumes 

Too much, I think, to call this ancient pile 

A church. Such speech would force a Paul to smile. 

Yet church it is in theologic phrase. 

And I shall not delay to argue here 
Its impropriety. In modern days 

But little meaning have such terms, I fear, 
And with the prejudiced, untutored mob. 
To change a name is oft a bootless job. 

Ho then, I have a subject! This gray house 
Will do. 'Tis old, suggestive, and I think 

That from its solitude not e'en a mouse 
Would prove to me an unimportant link 

For binding verse with verse, and giving tone 

To homely poetizing like my own. 



68 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

"Saint David's Church, " the subject of my song-, 
Though who Saint David was I scarcely know. 

To some old calendar he may belong, 
A monk, perchance, that lived long years ago, 

And saving grace, which only faith can gain, 

Sought in strange words and self-inflicted pain. 

And yet on second thought I can recall 
That this one was the patron saint of Wales, 

Who in that land of mountains outran all 
His fellow pilgrims, who to him were snails. 

And he a hare, unlike the fabled one. 

Who sped, and slept not till the race was done. 

Throughout the first and golden age of truth, 
When pardon was proclaimed by heaven-sent men, 

And when the Church of Christ in spotless youth 
Was clothed in robes of regal beauty, then 

The Christians all were saints, as we may learn 

If we to some of Paul's epistles turn. 

But men loved innovation; and the form. 
Simple and pure, in which the gospel came 

From God by inspiration, and gushed warm 
From human lips touched by the heavenly flame, 

Was soon corrupted; then by priests were made 

Worship and creeds of every style and shade. 

And sects have multiplied in Christendom 
Each with a different form and dialect. 

That when we try to count them and to come 
At each one's doctrine, we are forced direct 

To think of Babel, that most ancient town 

Whose tale is in the Bible handed down. 

Old Church! of fragments from the hard, dark rock 
Thy massive walls were built, now hoar with time 

And overrun with ivy. Thou the shock 
Of eight score winters hast withstood sublime. 

Time has not marred thee — he will let thee stand 

For aye — thy danger is from human baud. 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 69 

The spirit of conformity is rife , 

And bold in these degenerate days; 
The old is little reverenced, and the strife 

Is for new fashions, while the simple ways 
And customs that our fathers dearly prized 
By supercilious upstarts are despised. 

And here I see thy peril. Fane antique; 

Thy simple architecture does not make 
A fitting theater for those who seek 

To show their gold and satin, and they'll take 
Umbrage at all thy quaintness, and the smell 
Of ancient timber, and — but time will tell. 

Yes, time will tell thy fate, but here I say. 

If poet's imprecation can avail, 
The impious hand that from thy stones away 
The first one tries to tear shall instant fail 
Of all its ill-used strength, and palsied fall 
To warn all desecraters of thy wall. 

They tell us that in Queen Anne's glorious reign, 

When England by repeated victories 
Became the mistress of the stormy main, 

And arbitress of Europe's destinies, 
The Church that Harry Tudor built in state 
Gave thee a service of communion plate. 

They tell us, too, that in the troubled days 
When our foi^efathers, scorning tyranny, 

Began with strong and zealous hands to raise 
A temple to their goddess Liberty, 

The soldiers stripped thee of each window bar. 

And of the lead made bullets for the war. 

And Superstition has around thee thrown 
The mysteries of his unearthly power, 

And many a sheeted specter has been known 
To haunt thy shades at midnight's silent hour, 

And from their graves upraised the coffined dead 

Have filled lone travellers with speechless dread. 



70 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

Nor is thy name as yet unknown to song: 
The bard who wrote the legend of a race 

Now gone, and who will be remembered long 
For graceful verse, once came and took a place 

Among thy worshipers, then sang of thee 

In numbers of heart-touching melody. 

All this I pray, old house, may serve to keep 
Thy ancient structure from the Vandal hand 

Of Progress, that disturbs the quiet sleep 
Of death, and overthrows throughout 'the land 

The monuments our predecessors reared 

To make their days remembered and revered. 

Old Church! within thy venerable walls 
What fearful struggles of the heart have been, 

What wrestling of the soul with Duty's calls 
To leave the paths of waywardness and sin. 

Oft Truth resisted hopeless went her way 

To meet the stubborn in the Judgment day. 

Yet oft in tender mood she found the soul 
Abased and helpless, waiting for its Lord, 

Willing to yield itself to his control, 
And waiting only the inviting word. 

She raised the humbled ones with hand divine. 

And led them forth in righteousness to shine. 

O tell me not of famous victories. 
Won on the bloody field of carnal strife. 

Where frantic men ambitious chiefs to please. 
Upon the shrinking earth pour out their life. 

And bitter cries from stricken homes resound 

That one vain brow with glory may be crowned. 

The grandest triumphs that the earth has known, 
In their results the most important far. 

Where things more precious than an empire's throne 
Have been the object of a desperate war. 

Are those upon the heart's great battle-field 

When Satan unto Christ is forced to yield. 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 11 



XIV. THE CRITICS. 



Thy name, O Church, may all those critics please 
Who often on us luckless poets fall, 

And, reckless of our protestations, seize 
Our limping verses, and then furious call 

The public to behold, while tooth and nail 

They bite and claw us till their spirits fail. 

I've small regard for critics as a class; 

They are a whimsical, uncertain race. 
And foolish judgments many times they pass 

While sitting in their self-appointed place: 
They wield their pens to eulogize or kill, 
As their digestion may be good or ill. 

Still with them all I here would compromise; 

My verse is homely both in sense and sound; 
A pleasant name to please their ears and eyes 

Will prove to me no common vantage ground; 
Charmed by a title they will praise indeed 
The contents of a book they do not read. 

So not with harsh complaining I would fall 
In turn upon these often useful men. 

They serve as advertisers when they call 
The public eye upon us, and we then 

Commit to time whatever we have done. 

That wisely judges who has lost or won. 

I sent some stanzas of a poem to a friend. 
For his opinion of my humble muse, 

That I might learn what lines I ought to mend; 
Light taskl Such grateful service to refuse 

I never knew a critic howe'er learned, 

So I had much advice posthaste returned. 

In years agone this friend had greatly praised 

The feeble lines my boyish fancy traced. 
And now my hopes in consequence were raised 



72 AUTUMNAL, MUSINGS. 

To hear again his plaudit. All misplaced 
Had been my confidence, for he the plan, 
Style, measure, all condemned — the fickle man! 

Awhile I felt disheartened, and my muse, 
With drooping wing, hid in the laurelled side 

Of old Parnassus, and I thought to lose 
My cherished bird, so humbled was her pride. 

Next day the shock was over, and she rose 

And sang defiance to all carping foes. 

But wherefore, ask you, was this change of mind 

In one so ready once to offer praise? 
The reason here, dear reader, you will find: 

I'd changed entire the fashion of my lays; 
Careless of pausing at a rhyme, I'd run 
The sentence onward till the thought was done. 

Of course I often missed that nice effect 

Which springs from pairing lines in cadence sweet, 
Whose servile meaning, as we must expect. 

Contracts or else expands so many feet, 
That like a seesaw teeter up and down. 
And please with trivial smoothness all the town. 

XV. COWPER AND MILTON. 

I own I do not like that kind of verse, • 
So common in our day, in which the sound 

Has little sense, or, what is tenfold worse, 
In which the sheerest nonsense oft is found. 

The writers think the only things required 

Are vapid thoughts in jingling words attired. 

Not such was thine, O Cowper, when the Task, 
By gentle lips inspired, flowed from thy pen. 

Thou all that taste refined should ever ask. 
Or truth severe but just demand from men, 

Did'st in thy clouded years, wreathe into lines 

Whose beauty like the golden Autumn shines. 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 73 

We love to rove with thee o'er Olney's hills, 
And with thy playful spirit converse hold, 

We love thy song attuned to Summer rills, 
Or to the breeze that sways the forest old. 

Thou showest Nature till, in sweet accord, 

We join thy praises of her glorious Lord. 

And while our noble English speech shall stand, 
And men shall love the gentle and the pure, 

Thy verses still will charm in many a land, 
And thy sad story and thy fame endure. 

No need of bronze or marble graved by art; 

Thy name will be enshrined in many a heart. 

Nor thine, O Milton, prince of epic song. 
Whose daring genius, bursting every bound. 

Did to the heaven of heavens her flight prolong, 
And sweep the farthest realm of chaos round. 

A name more lustrous or a loftier mind 

Among the sons of earth we fail to find. 

As one who lived before the judgment throne, 
With duty thou didst measure all thy days. 

Nor think to call thy matchless gifts thine own. 
But used them ever to the Master's praise. 

With error waging a relentless strife. 

Thy noblest poem was thine earnest life. 

The more we know of thee the more we love 
Thy pure exalted nature. Thou no part 

Hadst with ignoble aims, but raised above 
The vain and fleeting, with unequalled art 

Didst picture Virtue till with fond desire 

To climb her flowery heights we all aspire. 

Thy muse descended from the mount of song 
To set thy peoi^le, soul and body, free, 

And most indignant at thy country's wrong. 
Her thrilling words rang out for liberty; 

Till feared and hated by tyrannic crowds, 

She took her wondrous flight beyond the clouds. 



74 AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 

Thine eyes, though outwardly so fair and bright, 
Were dark within to noontide's piercing ray; 

Thy spirit, filled with Truth's eternal light, 
Shone forth resplendent as the orb of day. 

Poor, blind, forsaken, in thy latter years. 

With hope thou dwelt, apart from grief and fears. 

Two densely crowded centuries have fled, 
Since thou wast given to the earth's embrace. 

And countless magnates to oblivion led, 
Who dreamed unfading bay s their brows would grace; 

But thou art still beloved of deathless fame. 

That higher through the years exalts thy name. 

And in the glories of that better day. 
When Truth shall reign upon the earth supreme 

No grander muse than thine shall verse essay. 
Or wed to numbers a sublimer theme: 

Calliope shall come to crown thee then, 

Great Milton, king of poets and of men. 

XVI. THE GRAVEYARD. 

I leave awhile the hilltop, and the long 

Declivity descending, soon I stand 
Within the ancient churchyard. Here my song 

In sadder accents on the silent land 
Shall dwell, and from the stores of memory bring 
Such thoughts of loved ones lost as here must spring. 

What deep despondency fills all my soul. 
As I look round me on these numerous graves ! 

Oh Death! thou end of earth, thou dreaded goal 
Of every worldly prospect, nothing saves 

Us from thy grasp, thou curse upon our race. 

For all must sink into thy cold embrace. 

With terror and with loathing I must turn 
From thy corruption — all that thou hast been 

To fallen mortals, and my heart must burn 
Against thy soui^ce malignant — human sin. 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 75 

What beauty poets in thy hideous mien 
Have oft professed to find I have not seen. 

But for the prospect of the radiant shore 
That lies beyond thy dark and chilling stream, 

And cheers us as we gaze the waters o'er 
With faith's far-seeing eye, no one would dream 

That thou hast been ordained the only way 

To joys unending in the realms of day. 

So after all our loathing and our dread. 
We may prepare to meet thee with the trust 

That thou art not eternal — that the dead 
Shall yet be rescued, and from out the dust 

Shall rise through Him of God and man the Son, 

Who met thee in thy realm, and victory won. 

Just here I see a little, grassy mound, 
The resting place of some once playful child 

That in the breast of mother earth has found 
A refuge from the tempests dark and wild 

That sweep from heaven like ministers of wrath, 

And overturn our idols in their path. 

How calm the loved ones sleep who pass away 
Before the blush of morning leaves their sky; 

They view the field of life at early day. 
But ere the hour of labor comes they die; 

Not theirs the weariness and burning noon, 

Yet theirs the rich reward, the workman's boon. 

For little children dead I would not mourn. 

For my theology foi^bids to think 
That they in dying any loss have borne 

Whose innocence is the endearing link 
That binds us to the angels. Each here lies, 
And waits the wondrous day when all shall rise. 

That day perchance is not far distant now 

Which shall the wayward tribes of earth appall, 
Compelling them in trembling fear to bow 



76 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

To Him whose voice shall unto judgment call, 
And whose loud trump shall bring from sea and land 
The dead before his glorious throne to stand. 

The books shall show unto the startled gaze 
Of conscience every deed of good or ill 

Done in the body, in those earthly days 
When man was left to wander forth at will. 

And his own way or God's to freely choose, 

And life eternal seize or else refuse. 

On their dread pages secrets of the heart 
In large and flaming type will be revealed; 

The motives that to character impart 
Its hue and texture will, though long concealed. 

Be known to all, and judgment will be passed 

On every human action first and last. 

Ah! who will pass the ordeal when the claim 
Of justice and the curses of the law are known? 

When every evil impulse, every deed of shame 
Demands a life before the great, white Throne? 

The soul that sinneth it shall surely die 

Will be the verdict of both earth and sky. 

The book of life will then be opened too. 
Disclosing names of those that shelter sought 

Beneath the banner of the conquering Jew, 
Who for the humble great deliverance wrought. 

And o'er the powers of darkness victory won, 

Showing himself God's well beloved Son. 

But now I stand beside another grave; 

The crumbling form within it once I knew, — 
My favorite pupil, E. S. P. — I gave 

Her lessons daily, and her young mind grew 
Under my teaching, and her gentle ways 
And purity of heart I loved to praise. 

Alas! that she should perish in her youth 
Just blooming into grace and womanhood 



•AUTUMNAL, MUSINGS. 77 

I cannot realize the bitter truth 

That she is gone forever, and I would, 
If possible, it were a gloomy thought 
That fancy in some troubled dream had brought. 

Oh! sweetly, sweetly sleep, dear E. S. P., 
No common tributes to thy worth belong, 

The fragrance of thy saintly memory 
Gives value even to my humble song. 

Yes, sleep, but not for aye — thine eyes at last 

Shall greet the dawn with joy that night is past. 

Yes, sweetly, sweetly sleep, dear E. S. P., 
Till breaks the morning of eternal day. 

The Christ thou loved and worshiped sent for thee. 
For his own angels bore thy soul away. 

Yes, sleep, and when the night of death is o'er, 

Thou'lt wake immortal on the sinless shore. 

They sleep, these buried forms, but do they dream? 

Do visions trouble them where they are laid? 
The phantoms of the brain — the things that seem 

So real, yet are but a flitting shade, — 
Come these to bless or mar their slumbers deep. 
Or lie the dead unconsciously asleep? 

Or can it be, as scientists have taught. 
All is mere matter and persistent force, 

The last producing motion, life and thought, 
And urging forward in relentless course. 

Makes to unmake, nor leaves a trace behind 

Of all that formed the structure of the mind? 

O problems that so vex the darkened soul! 

I bowed before you once in silent awe; 
But faith has opened wide your mystic scroll, 

Revealing life through God's unchanging law: 
To live and reign forever is for man 
Attainable by His most gracious plan. 



78 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

XVn. THE WORLD UNSEEN. 

We look upon the mansions of the dead, 
And think how little is the joy of earth, 

How dreary is the pilgrimage we've led^ 
A tearful journey from the hour of birth, — 

And thinking thus, we feel what sweet relief 

To lay life's burden down, and end our grief. 

The tomb to mortal eyes shuts out all pain 
And sorrow, stops the long and bitter strife 

Of man with man in which our hatreds reign 
Over our good emotions, and of life 

Ends every struggle: O what glad release 

To enter death that promises such peace! 

But is it such? and is the unseen world 

To which the spirit flies a quiet spot? 
Are all the banners of contention furled, 

And gains the inner man a happier lot 
When drops the fleshly robe? Ah, who can solve 
These questions which our destinies involve? 

How strange that with the Bible in their hands. 
Believers have false notions of the dead. 

Or that the foolish whims of pagan lands 

Should find a lodgment in the Christian's head. 

Yet few on this great theme, and more as well. 

The doctrine taught in Holy Writ can tell. 

Some say the good when dead to heaven hie, 
There to remain till judgment calls them thence, 

The wicked likewise to their torment fly 

When they from earthly scenes depart, and hence 

They would consign each soul to bliss or woe 

Before the judgment comes its fate to show. 

Again, of purgatory we are told. 

Where tainted souls by searching flames are tried, 
And tickets of release on earth are sold 



AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 79 

For those from sin thus fully purified : 
A few who here their penance underwent 
Escape the fire, and straight to heaven are sent. 

Others, who've borrowed largely from the Greeks, 
Talk wildly of an unseen world of spheres, 

Where every disembodied spirit seeks 
Its like, and, with a last adieu to fears. 

Starts upward on a grand progressive race. 

Still reaching higher scenes and richer grace. 

We hide the body underneath the sod, 
For "dust to dust" is still the stern decree. 

The spirit goes unto its Maker, God, 
To learn of him its final destiny; 

But God is everywhere; in deepest space. 

As in the highest heaven, he has his place. 

Deprived of instruments for working ill, 
The spirit can transgress the law no more, 

Nor show the workings of perverted will. 
And pleasure find in evil as of yore; 

Thus dead to sin it may be truly called. 

Yet in its dire results remain enthralled. 

Men talk much of the body's bent for sin. 
And to its charge they lay our every ill. 

And hold that when they leave it they shall win 
Eternal joy, and drink their constant fill. 

But stop, vain babblers, you should know 

It is the spirit not the clay that makes our woe. 

Whose are the appetites, the lust, the pride, 
The vanity, the hatred, and the wrath, 

The fell ambition that o'er all would ride, 
Crushing the bleeding millions in its path? 

Say, whose are these? They must, 'tis plain, 

To spirit, not to matter, all pertain. 

Now when the former leaves its earthly frame, 
Does it divest itself of every taint 



80 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

And wayward motion? Can we rightly claim 

A sudden transformation and restraint 
From evil, that the soul may take her flight 
And with the angels dwell in pure delight? 

Upon the negative and asking proof, 
I take my stand. Such sudden change, I hold, 

Has no analogy in warp or woof 
Of universal nature. 'Tis a bold 

Assumption that would give perpetual lease 

To wickedness, and bid repentance cease. 

The growth of character is slow through years 
Of watchful care and rigid discipline, 

And trials oft and many bitter tears 
Are needed to complete the cure of sin. 

And patience too, must have her work expressed 

Before the saint is fit to enter rest. 

The facts show plainly that a sudden change 
Of moral nature is unknown to man, 

That all transforming done within the range 
Of this life goes upon the gradual plan. 

Think you that for the soul there intervenes 

A miracle to fit for heavenly scenes? 

But of such miracle what proof have we 
In reason or in revelation? None! 

When from the clay the spirit struggles free. 
The impress deep of every action done 

Remains upon it, gives it form, and sets 

It in its place in spite of all regrets. 

So when it passes to the vast Unseen, 
Gehenna called and Paradise as well. 

Or Hades, with the gulf that lies between, 
In comfort it abides, or else in hell. 

Just as it chose on earth its fate will be 

By judgment fixed for all eternity. 

Upon the basis, then, of character 
Is placed the destiny of every soul; 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 81 

This solemn thought from evil should deter, 

And bring our passions under strict control. 
All sin results in wretchedness, and well 
We know how wicked souls can make a hell. 

Freed from the body and from every law 
That man binds on his fellows, closely brought 

From different climes and ages, with no awe 
Of virtue, it would baffle all our thought 

To show the misery of such a mass: 

Hyperbole the scene could scarce surpass. 

A truce to argument, for nought we know, 
Save what the One Book tells us, of the land 

Of night and silence towards which we go; 
And when the bark of life lies on its strand. 

We there await the dawning, and the hour 

When Christ, descending, re-asserts his power. 

In vain we seek to pierce the mystic gloom 
That hides from mortal sight the spirit land, 

Or summon from the cloisters of the tomb 
A single soul of all that countless band 

Of earthly pilgrims who unwilling sped 

To seek the shadowy kingdom of the dead. 

XVIII. M. J. B. 

I turn to yonder tombstone where a cross 
Sculptured upon the snowy marble shows 

The symbol of a hope linked with a loss. 
The form that lies beneath it, like a rose 

Cut down by frost untimely, once did live, 

And proofs abundant of rich thought did give. 

The best endowed of Radnor's daughters, shoj 
In mind and heart, and in the skill to tell 

In prose or rhyme the things we wish to be; 
I loved her fondly, for I knew her well, 

And first discerned in her young, ardent soul 

The buds of genius and of self-control. 



82 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

She was my pupil, and became my friend, 
Confiding to me what she hoped and feared, 

Till with our plans romance began to blend, 
And made us each to each the more endeared. 

While ere we knew it Love had bound us fast 

With silken ties that often life outlast. 

Still, friends we deemed each other, and we thought 
The hours were heavenly, as in converse sweet, 

We found the pleasure that, so often sought. 
Comes not, and then we wondered why so fleet 

Time was when we would have him lag behind. 

And never to his flight were we resigned. 

We wandered oft together, and the way 
Seemed strewn with fairest flowers of spring; 

Beneath was beauty, overhead, the day 
Shone brightly, and each living, moving thing 

Seemed to partake of that pure happiness 

Which came our hearts in unison to bless. 

Her girlish innocence and simple trust. 

Conjoined with courage, and a clear, strong mind 
First won my confidence, as ever must 

Such precious traits the honest-hearted bind. 
We nearer grew, until there came a day 
When one from other naught could tear away. 

I've sung the meadow and the lonely wood. 
The scene of early rambles when my heart 

Loved nature more and her deep solitude. 
And I have pictured with my feeble art 

The beauties that I there so oft beheld 

Admiringly in palmy days of eld. 

In later years I wandered there again, 
With her who had become my light and joy. 

In Summer, and in dreamy Autumn, when 
Life seemed a cup of bliss without alloy, 

And hand in hand beside the stream and wood, 

We aimless roved, rejoicing in our good. 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 83 

A penciled paper with a flower enclosed, 
A spray of goldenrod now pale and dry, 

I lately found. The few faint words disclosed 
A world of meaning as they met mine eye. 

They were but "From our Meadow," and recalled 

The golden hours when Love our hearts enthralled. 

And she who plucked the flower and wrote the phrase 
No longer lives. The faded blossom soon became 

An emblem of her few and fleeting days. 
For she too, drooped, nor could resist the claim 

Of fell decay upon her, and she died, 

So closely was she to the flowers allied. 

Alas! O Rose of Radnor, loved and lost! 

Soon wast thou borne into the Silent Land, 
While I am still upon the billows tossed, 

Beneath dark clouds that hide the sunny strand 
Of that sweet Isle for which our spirits yearned, 
As from the cold, dull Now they weary turned. 

I would that thou wert here beside me now. 
This day of sunshine and of perfect peace; 

I fain would gaze upon thy spotless brow. 
And into thy brown eyes in their release 

From sorrow's tears and from the chilling frown 

Of adverse fortune that soon cast thee down. 

Oft times when I am sad, I take the store 
Of thy dear letters, which I sacred keep, 

And, opening the packets, read them o'er; 
Then the long buried years awake from sleep. 

And I am young again, and thou art mine, 

And love and hope once more our lives entwine. 

How precious are these relics of the past, 
Written in all the glow of youthfulness, 

Full of a zeal we dreamed would ever last, 
And of a faith that would not fail to bless 

Our lives with full fruition void of change, 

As in the golden future we should range. 



84 AUTUMNAL, MUSINGS. 

We thought to make a paradise below, 
And of rough stone a fairy palace build, 

On earth's dry sands Edenic flowers to grow, 
And mold life's ideal with our hands unskilled. 

Thus by our dreams deceived, we took our way 

Towards the portals of the setting day. 

Alas! we thought not of the toil and cares 
That lay before us, and the world's contempt 

For all our aspirations, and the snares 
That oft beset our pathway; nor exempt 

Were we from selfishness, sweet love's dire foe, 

That chills its founts and stops its generous flow. 

We stood together in the market places where 
All worth is measured by the coin it brings. 

And faith and conscience, soiled by traffic, share 
The price and fate of gross and common things. 

The wares we had to sell were not of gold. 

Nor even gilt, so they remained unsold. 

But all is over now, and thou, dear one. 
Art resting from the weariness of earth. 

God grant that when the long, long night is done, 
Thou'lt waken joyous to immortal birth. 

And see the golden age and happy Isle 

We longed for when we loved and dreamed the while. 

XIX. TRUTH. 

I turn from grief and tears, and climb the hill 
Once more, to feast upon the light and air 

Of this rare day in Autumn, and to fill 
My mind with flowers of memory ever fair. 

And redolent with odors of life's spring. 

When hope and fancy roved with tireless wing. 

In childhood's years how many sports were mine, 
Whose harmless pleasure never seemed to pall; 

The jealous rival ready to malign, 
The vengeful bigot with his heart of gall, 



AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 85 

The false companion eager to betray, 

Were then unknown — would that they were to-day ! 

And yet the ways of Providence, not ours, are best, 
Unwilling though we are to walk therein; 

Through trials and reverses we are blest. 
And through defeats life's battle we must win. 

Hard lot I the unbelieving heart replies. 

Yes, hard to him who not on Christ relies. 

We ne'er achieve the poems we have planned, 
Nor frame in deeds the pictures of the mind; 

Our best performances imperfect stand. 
And often woi^thless, as we sadly find; 

Yet not for this should we a moment dare 

To murmur, or of better things despair. 

For confident am I that Truth will win. 
In the great outcome of the world's affairs. 

The victory over ignorance and sin, 
And give to him who in reverses dares 

To stand beside her the unfading crown 

Of righteousness and heaven's bright renown. 

The best philosophy of life, I think. 
Is that which turns us to the present good. 

Gives us the cup of blessing now to drink, 
Leads us to grasp the known and understood. 

The past is fixed, the future is not ours. 

Our life is now; let this employ our powers. 

Upon the rock of Truth unchanging build 
A lasting hope for all your future joys, 

Conform your life to what the Loi'd has willed. 
Avoid the petty strife and learned noise 

Of wranglers, and the speculations vain 

Of mystics who by dreams would heaven gain. 

But what is Truth? This question was proposed 
By Pilate to the Man Divine who wore 

Our crown of sorrows, and sweet heaven unclosed 
To mortals. He the query then forbore 



86 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

To answer: Pilate asked it with a sneer, 
And Truth is worthless to the insincere. 

But to his own the Wondrous One declared, 
I am the Truth, and all must come to me 

That would her lessons learn; and none have dared 
To call in question or deny what he 

Has said, or, daring, pointed out a trait 

In Christ our Lord where Truth dwells not in state. 

It is a fact that Christ is everywhere. 
In the broad country and the crowded street, 

Wherever is a heart that loves him, there 
He comes to dwell with every blessing meet 

For life and holiness and perfect peace, 

And gives from care and fear a sweet release. 

The revelation of his righteous will, 
Made by the promised Paraclete that came 

Forever to abide, is with us still, 
Through all the centuries it is the same 

Unchanging Truth that points the only way 

To Joy's bright home and Heaven's eternal day. 

And all our life is waste that is not spent 
In knowing Him, the Christ who all things knew, 

And showing in ourselves the knowledge lent 
To teach our fellows by the works we do. 

Of all ambitions this is surely best — 

To have in word and deed our Christ confessed. 

And in this hour of retrospection, glad, 
Right glad am I that Truth has ever been 

My chief delight, that I have never bade 
To her known foes a welcome, nor within 

My inner heart a dwelling place allowed 

For one of Falsehood's coarse and motley crowd. 

Yet little have I learned and less have done, 

Nor would I dare to play the Pharisee, 
And boast as if the crown of life were won, 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 87 

And mine the honor of the victory. 
"We nothing have save what the Lord bestows, 
As every child of his with gladness knows. 

The heart that now remembers Him in love, 
The soul that joys in this unclouded day, 

The wish that grasps the precious things above. 
The grace and mercy of my God display; 

For all are his own workmanship, not mine, 

Wroughtthroughhis Christ, the Source of Truthdivine. 

XX. MOUNT PLEASANT. 

As here I muse this morn, I seem again 
A pupil of the old Mount Pleasant school, 

I sit before my desk with book and pen, 
I yield once more to Aiken's gentle rule. 

O what familiar faces gather round, 

What well-known voices through the room resound. 

The desks are hacked and carved with Barlow knives 
In hands of budding Bewicks deftly plied. 

To win a humble place in Fame's archives 
For bold initials, each its owner's pride. 

While on the benches, walls, and paintless door 

Is many a name remembered now no more. 

Again I open Pike to do his "sums," 
And solve the mysteries of "Rule of Three;" 

Again I read in Frost, and hear the drums 
From battle fields urge on to victory; 

While all around, by work or idleness 

The boys and girls their characters express. 

There sits pale Alice conning o'er a page 
Of Comly's Speller with a weary look. 

The definitions every thought engage, 
Her eyes alternate rest on wall and book; 

Beside me is her brother slate in hand, 

The leading spirit of our playful band. 



88 AUTUMNAL. MUSINGS. 

There, too, is Buzby, whom in cruel jest, 

I likened to a greedy bird of prey: 
Of righteous indignation full possessed, 

He vowed most dire revenge the coming day: 
But on the morrow other thoughts engaged. 
And so the threatened war was never waged. 

And there is Emily the beautiful and wild. 
Who many a young heart to romance allured: 

Her books unnoticed lie before the child, 
For when was study patiently endured 

By her who gloried in the prettiest face, 

And reigned acknowledged belle in any place? 

And young Achilles, who with me had sought 
For buried treasure which we fancied hid 

By some freebooter who his gold had brought 
When he from far had sailed with Captain Kidd, 

We toiled two hours or more, but nothing found. 

Save blistered hands, in turning up the ground. 

And Barbara, whom I would stop to praise: 
Artless, with kindness beaming in thine eyes. 

And goodness showing forth in all thy ways. 
How few there were who knew thy worth to prize; 

Yet these have held thee in remembrance dear 

And blessed thee, child, throughmanyacheckered year 

Our teacher, too, whom we "The Master" call 
Is now beside me on the platform seat; 

Upon his desk he lets his ferule fall. 
To make impressive what his lips repeat; 

And now he turns to me with accents kind. 

The honest trainer of my growing mind. 

The time slips by — we read and write and spell, 
With interruptions made by naughty boys, 

Whose punishment with rod, inflicted well. 
Fills all the room with penitential noise. 

For in those days of strength no birchless grace 

Of Solomon's advice usurped the place. 



AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 89. 

Yes, there they are! and I'm a boy once more, 
With all that boyish hopefulness can bring. 

Recess comes on, we struggle through the door, 
We run, we shout till hill and valley ring; 

Then, choosing plays, in separate groups we go, 

With bounding steps, and bosoms all aglow. 

The vision fades — these young and agile forms, 
Alas! have vanished far beyond recall; 

Some, safe from later life's i-elentless storms, 
Sleep in the quiet grave, which waits us all; 

A.nd some still live, yet changed in all but name, 

They and their former selves ai^e not the same. 

Where Alice is I know not; but I learned 

In after years her brother early wed 
A stranger, and his daring footsteps turned 

With her to the Great West where sunset red, 
Dyes the Pacific wave that breaks upon 
The verdant shores of wood-crowned Oregon. 

And Emily? To her with woman's years 
Came woman's cares and all the weary moil 

Of household duties, not unmixed with tears. 
Within a home upon a sterile soil. 

Her beauty, which a palace would have graced, 

By anxious labor early was effaced. 

They had their dreams no doubt, and painted bright 
The scenes before them, restless for the time 

When they should leave behind and out of sight 
All discontentment, and should joyous climb 

The flowery slopes that to their childish eyes 

Seemed ever near in loveliness to rise. 

XXI. CONCLUSION. 

Ah, change has troubled thee, my natal ground, 
And marred thy rustic beauty to my view, 

Large mansions of the Queen Anne type are found 
Where elderberry and sweetbrier grew. 



90 AUTUMNAL MUSINGS. 

And city fashions banish rural ways 
And simple customs of our early days. 

The school-house, though, like this old church survives, 
For time allows to men's achievements many a year 

Beyond the measure of their own frail lives, 
And gives to walls renown when disappear 

The names the builders vainly hoped would stand 

Upon the scroll of Fame in many a land. 

The sun is higher as the hours have sped. 

And I reluctant turn my steps away 
From old St. David's, Radnor and the dead. 

And end my musings and my homely lay; 
Yet a few words of parting are but meet, 
Ere busy scenes of life again I greet. 

O woods and fields, where I in childhood played, 

I bid you now perhaps a last farewell; 
Ye well known spots, where oft my footsteps strayed 

Upon the hill or in the shady dell. 
Linked with bright days and to my heart endeared, 
I'll see you still as you of old appeared. 

And in that wondrous realm which hidden lies 
Beyond life's sunset in the unknown west 

Are fairer landscapes under lovelier skies. 
Where cloud and tempest never more molest, 

And where at last Hope's wildest, sweetest dreams, 

Will come to pass by Eden's flowery streams. 



LILLY. 91 



LILLY. 

Thou Lilly of my early years, 

Sweet maiden loved when I was young, 
I see thee now through mem'ry's tears, 

And speak thy name with falt'ring tongue. 

I know how greatly thou art changed, 
How strangely time has dealt with thee, 

Since thou and I together ranged 
The fields of youth and poesy. 

I know our sweet romance has fled 
To seek the shades of Nevermore, 

I know the flowers of love are dead, 
And all our cherished dreams are o'er. 

I know that thou hast ceased to be 
My Lilly gay and young and fair. 

With voice of richest melody, 
And eye of light beyond compare. 

No, thou to me art nothing now 
More than the scores I daily meet, 

Whom with a word or smile or bow, 
In kindly courtesy I greet. 

Yet I for this no longer care. 

For in the bygone lives my joy. 
And my accustomed heart can bear 

Each pang that does not quite destroy. 

My joy is in the golden hours 

That brought our paths of life so near. 
My grief has wasted all its powers, 

And left me nothing more to fear. 

O never was a love more pure, 

Than that which linked our souls in one; 
Alas! that it could not endure 

Until the course of life was run. 



92 TREDYFFRIN. 

From stain of passion was it free, 
Or gold, or fame, or pride of birth; 

It lived in its own ecstasy, 
A thing of beauty not of earth. 

I still behold thee as of old, 
Unrivalled in thy virgin grace, 

In reverie thy hand I hold, 
And gaze into thy love-lit face. 

It is the Lilly of the past 

That comes to cheer each lonely hour, 
And seems again her spell to cast 

Around me with its ancient power. 

And as the Lilly of the past, 
I evermore would think of thee. 

Bright reminiscence that shall last 
Till life itself shall cease to be! 



TREDYFFRIN. 

Tredyffrin, O Tredyflfrin, 

How oft I think of thee ! 
Thy hills and glens romantic 

I long again to see. 
The sunny years of boyhood 

That like a dream have flown. 
Were passed beside thy valley 

So dear to Memory grown. 

The thoughts that brightly cluster 

Around my early days 
Demand for thee, Tredyffrin, 

The tribute of my praise. 



TREDYFFRIN. 93 

There is no place so lovely 

As that where we were reared, 
And all revere the humblest 

Their childhood has endeared. 

Its scenes however lowly 

Our heart-strings twine around 
And, by remembrance hallowed, 

Each spot is sacred ground; 
Portrayed in Fancy's colors 

They're with us everywhere 
And nothing else of beauty 

Seems to us half so fair. 

But thee I need not flatter 

With Fancy's gaudy dyes, 
For thousands know what beauties 

Are found beneath thy skies, — 
The beauties of thy summers. 

The glories of thy springs, 
The visions of enchantment 

Which dreamy autumn brings. 

No days were e'er so happy 

As those when I, a boy, 
Upon thy hill-tops lingered 

Thy landscapes to enjoy. 
With book and busy pencil 

I whiled the hours away, 
Until the dewy twilight 

Had closed the halcyon day. 

Thy groves of oak and chestnut 

Were ever my delight 
In spring, or gloomy winter, 

Or in the summer bright; 
Thy shady dells and streamlets. 

Thy rocky slopes so wild. 
To me became familiar 

When I was but a child. 



M TREDYFFRIN. 

Upon thy hills I cherished 

Sweet dreams which still remain 
Like stars amid the darkness 

When gloomy thoughts enchain; 
Sweet dreams which Time's reverses 

Seek vainly to destroy 
But which reviving ever 

Bring back my hope and joy. 

And I drank in thy spirit, 

Thy spirit wild and free, 
Until my own with longing 

Grew restless as the sea; 
Then, leaving thee, I wandered, 

Yet everywhere I roam 
My heart in fondness lingers 

Within my early home. 

Tredyffrin, O Tredyflfrin, 

When life shall reach its close 
I'd rest within thy bosom 

In undisturbed repose — 
Rest in thy ancient valley 

Wherein my kindred lie, 
Till Joy's eternal morning 

Illumes our darkened sky! 



QUERIES. 

Say, shall I leave unsung 
What dreary years have flown, 
How sad my life has grown, 

Since thou and I were young? 

Our paths, just then begun, — 
How very near they came! 
Say, was our wish the same. 

That ever thus they'd run? 



QUERIES. 95 

I never knew thy heart, 

Yet sometimes dared to think 

That love our lives would link 
So fast we'd never part. 

For often in thine eye, 

That hazel eye so bright, 

A softer, sweeter light 
Appeared when I was by. 

It was a foolish thought, 

Yet gave a greater joy 

To me, a timid boy, 
Than later years have brought. 

Did memory hold me dear 

When no more side by side. 

But separating wide 
We sought the world so drear? 

And on thy lonely way, 

Like mine, was thy young breast 

Filled with a strange unrest 
Through many a weary day? 

Alas! thou'lt ne'er reply 

'Till in the angels' land 

I take thee by the hand 
Where love shall never die. 



TOO LATE. 

I've met thee day by day. 
And known thy gentle ways. 

And seen thy blushes play 
At times beneath my gaze. 

My heart I cannot trust 
To linger with thee more. 



96 TOO LATE. 

But leave thee now I must, — 
Why did I not before? 

Too late, alas, we've met 
To wear love's gilded chain, 

And only vain regret 
Can in our bosoms reign. 

Had we each other known 
In the dim long ago. 

We might perchance have grown 
Too fond of earth below. 

This world was never made 
The home of happiness, 

Its day-dreams quickly fade. 
And sorrows all oppress. 

We seize the cup of joy — 
How soon 'tis snatched away ! 

Our gold is but alloy, 
Our life is but decay. 

Together oft we strayed 
Through summer's leafy vales, 

But now her blossoms fade 
In autumn's chilling gales. 

Together oft we.heard 
The robin pour his lay, 

But now each tuneful bird 
In silence flies away. 

No fitter time we'll find 
Our final leave to take; 

Delays but stronger bind 
The ties that we must break. 

'Twill be a moment's pain — 
Why should it longer last? 

And firmly we'll refrain 
From dwelling on the past. 



DEATH. 97 

Then, dear one, fare thee well, 

I should have gone before. 
These tears my sorrow tell. 

But we must meet no more. 



DEATH. 

Now from the autumn sky. 
Now from the fading year, 

Looks forth the mystery 
Our souls so greatly fear. 

It whisi^ers in the breeze. 

It murmurs in the rill. 
It rustles in the leaves. 

And echoes from the hill. 

Oh, Death! thou wondrous power, 

Transforming all below. 
Why should we di-ead the hour 

That will thy secrets show. 

Thou art the angel sent 
To save, and not destroy, 

To free the captives pent. 
And lift the gates of joy. 

Through thee our Christ has passed 
To mount his priestly throne, 

To reign until at last 
He comes to call his own. 

Then from thine icy reign, 
Out of thy loathsome tomb^ 

His loved ones shall regain 
Primeval Eden's bloom. 



GOOD NIGHT. 



GOOD NIGHT. 

She came to me so softly, 
Her blue eyes beaming bright, 

She took my hand so gently, 
And sweetly said, "Good night." 

She seemed as I beheld her. 
And clasped her little hand, 

A vision of the beauty 
Found in the angels' land. 

As softly then she left me. 
And soon was lost to sight. 

But in my memory lingered 
That gently -breathed "Good night. 

When next I saw my darling, 
Her cheek had lost its bloom. 

And she was slowly sinking 
Down to the silent tomb. 

Her eyes were sunk and mournful, 
They beamed no longer bright, 

Yet sweetly then as ever 
She bade her last "Good night." 

Ah! many a bitter tear-drop 

I shed at parting then: 
I knew that I would never 

Behold her face again. 



My Heavenly Father gives me bread 
Through toil which he has daily blessed. 

Why should I covet gold instead, 
Or with ambition break my rest? 



JUNE. 99 



JUNE. 



O June, rare June, 
Thou fairest daughter of the year. 

Thou comest with the summer moon, 
And bringest beauty for the eye and ear. 

Long, long ago 
I thought of thee with tenderness 

Greater than lovers fond bestow. 
Or maidens to their chosen ones confess. 

And in thy smile 
My youthful heart was ever gay, 

And days sped swift as moments, while 
Thy reign of one sweet month seemed but a day. 

And why not now? 
Thy deep blue eyes are just as bright 

As lovely thine unwrinkled brow 
As when they charmed my childhood 's eager sight. 

Thou hast not changed. 
But I, alas! am not the same: 

Life's cares have so my heart estranged 
That thou, O June, seemst but an empty name. 

And yet I know 
Thou shouldst be still a welcome guest: 

Thou art a visitant below 
From that unclouded realm where dwell the blest. 

And when I come 
To that fair land, O let me share 

The pleasures of thy blissful home. 
And on my brow thy fadeless roses wear! 

LefC.J 



100 ENLIGHTENED. 



ENLIGHTENED. 

I ask not wealth, T ask not fame: 
An envied heap of yellow earth, 

The tiresome echo of a name,— 
Such things to me are nothing worth. 

To live a life of poverty, 

To perish, to the world unknown, 
Were one time dreary thoughts to me. 

Not now, for I have wiser grown. 

The spirit of the Nazarene 

Has filled me with its wondrous light, 
And things long hidden I have seen: 

I walk no longer in the night. 

This perishable life must fly, 
The life beyond it will endure, 

As clouds evanish from the sky. 
And leave the heavens serene and pure. 



A PRAYER. 

O Blessed One, whose voice divine 
Comes through the ages to mine ear, 

Assuring me that I am Thine, 
And freeing me from every fear, — 

Transformed by truth and love I'd be 
And made in mind and life like Thee. 

Within my heai't O condescend 
To enter, Lord, and there abide, 

That all my thoughts with thine may blend, 

. And seek no fellowship beside; 

For Thou art endless joy to those 
Whose faith and hope in Thee repose. 



DAYDREAMS. 101 



DAYDREAMS. 



I would not dream this precious life away, 
Delightful as my idle musings are, 

But rouse me to the labor of the day. 
And follow duty as my guiding star. 

These reveries in which our fancy soars, 

And builds her palaces upon the clouds, 
Make us disdainful of these lower shores 

Where humble toilers move in weary crowds. 
I would not lose my sympathy for man, 

Nor love him less for all the faults he shows, 
But cherish all the tenderness I can 

For them in whom life's common current flows. 

I would not dream, but work till day has fled. 
And He who hires and watches calls me home; 

Then in the mansions of the blessed dead. 
Far sweeter rest and brighter dreams will come. 



MARY. 

When Cynthia o'er the folded flowers. 
Has spread her vail of silver light, 

And sleep enchains the silent hours 
That cluster round the noon of night, 

My fancy seeks the mystic streams 

That murmur through the land of dreams. 

'Tis there I meet the loved and lost, 
Whose forms are seen on earth no more. 

But who the sombre waves have crossed. 
And gained the farther, better shore; 



102 MARY. 

Where pleasure is a constant guest, 
And weary pilgrims are at rest. 

And thee, dear Mary, there I meet. 
Whom by Owasco's stream I knew. 

With sunny face and smile so sweet, 
And eyes that beamed with friendship true, 

Now brighter grown, escaped the shades 

Where sorrow reigns, and beauty fades. 

Thy gentle form is now arrayed 
la robes like those the angels wear, 

Far richer than the garments made 
For that June day with loving care. 

When orange blossoms graced thy brow, 

Meet emblems of thy marriage vow. 

Sometimes a look of sadness comes, 
And dims the glory round thy head; 

Thou thinkest of the darkened homes. 
Where bitter tears for thee are shed, — 

Where husband, mother, sisters, weep. 

And memory's sacred vigil keep. 

Oh! Mary, though our hearts must bleed. 
To know that thou art here no more. 

We would not wish thee back, indeed. 
From that unfading, sinless shore: 

No, let us sad but patient wait. 

Till we, too, pass through heaven's gate. 



AT EVEN. 

At even when the twilight steals 

Adown the western sky. 
And night with trailing robe conceals 

The landscape from the eye, 



AT EVEN. 103 

I set me down within my room, 

A lonely, saddened man, 
I set me down within the gloom, 

To muse and idly plan. 

Then comes to me from out the past 

A voice that's sweet and low, 
"Whose gentle tones still o'er me cast 

The spell of long ago: 
It is the voice of one now dead 

Whose presence was my joy 
When girlhood's ringlets graced her head, 

And I was but a boy. 

It tells me of the golden years 

That rolled so swiftly by. 
When our young eyes were free from tears, 

And our young hearts beat high, 
When over all our coming days 

Hope set a radiant bow. 
And every scene that met our gaze 

Appeared in beauty's glow. 

voice! whose echoes faintly sound 
From out the realm of shade, 

1 weep to think of that green mound 
Which over her was made, 

Whose dear lips formed thee all thou art, 

O voice so sweet and low. 
And filled with melody my heart 

In evenings long ago. 

The wintry winds now wildly sweep 

Around her lonely tomb. 
And I who live to think and weep, 

Could wish to share its gloom 1 
O voice, sweet voice, thou bid'st me come 

Where teardrops fall no more, 
Where weary pilgrims find a home 

On God's eternal shore. 



104 THE GLASS OF FAITH. 



THE GLASS OP FAITH. 

Why waitest thou, O Soul, 

Beside this sea unknown? 
I watch the billows roll, 

And hear the breakers moan. 

Dost thou no objects see, 

No distant land descry? 
Nothing appears to me 

Except the waste and sky. 

No voices reach thine ear. 
No whispers from the deep? 

Nothing at all I hear: 
The loved are all asleep. 

Asleep? Then in the morn 

Thou'lt greet them when they wake. 
Alas! men say in scorn, 

"The morn will never break." 

Hast thou forgot thy glass, 
As thou dost here despond? 

Ah, now the shadows pass! 
I see the shore beyond; 

I see the dead arise. 

My cherished dead, and thine: 
They meet Him in the skies. 

The Christ of Palestine. 



WHEN I AM GONE. 105 



WHEN I AM GONE. 

The flowers in spring will bloom anew, 

And birds will trill their song, 
And groves put on their vernal hue, 

And brooks will dance along; 
The sun his burning rays will send 

From out the summer sky, 
And weary ones in toil will bend. 

When I in death shall lie. 

Yes, seasons still will come and go. 

When I am passed away, 
And bosoms still with joy will glow, 

Or shrink from sorrow's sway; 
The restless world will hurry on 

As eager as before. 
Nor stop to think of him that's gone, 

Nor miss the life that's o'er. 

What am I to the countless race? 

A bubble on the main! 
Another soon will take my place, 

And what the loss or gain? — 
I would not think in foolish pride 

The world depends on me. 
For I must sink beneath the tide 

That swells oblivion's sea. 



ACROSS THE STREAM. 

The boatman crosses the waveless stream, 
I hear the dip of his muffled oar, 

And through the twilight there faintly gleam 
The spectral lights on the farther shore. 



106 ACROSS THE STREAM. 

I watch the rower whose strength and skill 
Inspire the oars in their rapid play, 

I see the waters so deep and chill, 
Part right and left as the boat makes way. 

This time he crosses, I know for me. 
As he has done for the myriads gone; 

The darkness deepens, and soon I'll be 
Within the gloom that precedes the dawn. 

The boat I enter, my lips are dumb, — 
Oh, heart, lone heart, in thy silence pray! — 

Over at last! — and the morn has come 
That ushers in the unfading day. 

A city builded of crystal gold, 

Makes glad my sight in the morning beam, 
An endless life with its joys untold. 

Is now my portion across the stream. 



THE ARBUTUS. 

O beauteous child of the forest, 

Thou lovest the wild, rocky hills, 
Avoiding the low, grassy meadows, 

And babble of fountains and rills; 
Yet vainly for hours have I wandered. 

On slopes where I formerly found 
Thy clusters of snow-white and crimson 

Abundantly scattered around. 

Oft ere the last snow of the winter 

Had melted within the ravine. 
Or squirrel had peeped from his covert, 

Thy petals unfolding I've seen; 
But now though the sun is resplendent. 

And March is as meek as a lamb, 
Thy buds are still locked in the calyx 

In spite of the sunshine and calm. 



SEMPER OR A, 107 

I wonder not, though disappointed, 

For often our friends do we see, 
When we in Hope's spring would be joyous 

Retiring and selfish like thee. 
No doubt in the garland of April 

Thy blossoming spray will be twined, 
And then if I seek thee, Arbutus, 

Thy blushes of shame I shall find. 



SEMPER ORA. 

When Aurora's glories bright 

Cover all the eastern skies. 
And her robe of golden light 

O'er the wakened landscape lies. 
Cast away each earthly feeling. 

Bid thy thoughts to heaven ascend, 
And, in secret lowly kneeling. 

Let thy prayers and praises blend. 

Through the cares and toil of day, 
Still forget not God is nigh, 

Let thy heart in silence pray. 
As thy moments onward fly. 

And when evening's quiet hours. 

Stealing past with sombre mien. 
Scatter o'er the sleeping flowers 

Countless drops of dewy sheen. 
Cast away each earthly feeling, 

Bid thy thoughts to heaven ascend, 
And, in secret humbly kneeling. 

Let thy prayers and praises blend. 



108 THE ANGELS. 



THE ANGELS. 

[The following verses wore suggested by the words of G. Anna 
Bhaw, who, a few minutes before her death, exclaimed, "Look, 
father, seethe angclsr'-L. F, B,J 

Look, dear father, see the angels. 

As around me now they glide! 
They have come, I know, to guide me 

Through the Jordan's rolling tide. 
See you not their golden tresses, 

And their trailing robes of snow? 
Hear you not their rustling pinions 

And their voices sweet and low? 

O the angels, blessed angels. 
Lovely as the morning star! 

They have come, I know, to lead me 
To the land that lies afar. 

I can see them bending o'er me. 

Feel them touch my pallid brow, 
As the border land I enter, 

And at Jordan's brink I bow. 
Soon they'll lead me to my Savior, 

Soon I'li clasp His loving hand, 
Then from every care and sorrow 

Safe, I'll rest in Canaan's land. 

O the angels, blessed angels, 
Lovely as the morning star! 

They have come, I know, to lead me 
To the rest that lies afar. 

Fare ye well, dear father, mother! 

When I reach the sinless shore, 
I will watch beside the river. 

Till the angels bring you o'er; 



TO J. H. B. 109 

L will be the first to greet you, 
When you touch the blooming strand, 

I will be the first to welcome. 
When you roach the heavenly land. 

O the angels, blessed angels, 
Lovely as the morning starl 

They will come, I know, to lead you, 
To the land that lies afar. 



TO J. H. B. 

Dear Dingle, friend of younger days, 
Whom always I delight to praise. 
Be kindly patient while I write, 
A letter short in verses trite. 

Though oft the music of my lyre 
Be void of all poetic fire, 
Indulgent think a friend sincere 
Has placed each line in order here. 

How many years from us have flown. 
How many changes we have known. 
Since first by Susquehanna's stream. 
We met in April's summer dreami 

Then Spring had chased the snows away, 
That o'er the land had held their sway. 
And Flora in her playful mood, 
Strewed blossoms over field and wood. 

Then merry birds on every tree, 
Moved all the air with minstrelsy. 
Till every heart with music thrilled 
And every soul with joy was filled. 

In fair Lock Haven first we met, 
That on the river's bank is set, 



110 TO M. P. D. 

Like pensive maiden come to dream 
The hours away beside the stream. 

But that bright morn I little thought 
How soon by thee I should be brought 
To know the Wondrous One whose love 
Allures to brighter scenes above. 

Yet so it proved and often now 

In solitude I humbly bow, 

And praise the grace that turned our feet, 

And caused our paths of life to meet. 

O, may that grace still with us be, 
And deepen still our sympathy. 
Till we shall reach the rest above. 
Where friendship ends in perfect love! 



TO M. P. D. 

(For a Bouquet.) 

Pretty blossoms, pretty blossoms. 
Fashioned by the dimpled SpringI 

Tints of yellow, snow and purple. 
Bright as rubies glistening. 

Like these gentle blooms of Flora, 

Lovely in their purity, 
Source of joy to all around thee, 

May thy words and actions be. 



TO B. C. Ill 



TO B. C. 



I saw thy dear face bathed in tears, 

The time thy sainted mother died, 
When o'er the path of thy young years. 

Came sorrow's overwhelming tide; 
I saw thee, but said nothing then, 

Nor tried to soothe thy rending grief, 
For how, alas, could tongue or pen 

To pain like thine have brought relief? 

Yet deeply did I pity thee. 

And often in my heart I prayed. 
That Heaven's more potent sympathy 

Would lift the burden on thee laid. 
And to thee grant the peace of Him 

Who gave his life for all in tears 
That raise their eyes with sorrow dim. 

And consecrate to him their years. 

I knew not thou hadst never turned 

In sweet obedience to His word. 
Nor felt the love that oft has burned, 

Since thou the voice of mercy heard; 
I knew not, — but the answer came. 

For thou wast led to His dear cross, 
To take upon thee His high name. 

Without which all is hopeless loss. 

O let the memory of the dead 

Incite thee to a holy life. 
And cheerful light around thee shed, 

Amid the world's unceasing strife. 
And lead thee upward in the way 

That all the good and true have gone. 
Till thou shalt greet the brighter day 

That shines the domes of heaven upon! 



112 TO B. B. 



TO B. B. 

Oft have I read thy dreamy lays, 
And ever have they called to mind 

The summer brooks that gently flow, 

And sweetly murmur as they go 
Their course to wind 

Amid the meadow's blooming maze. 

And fancy's pencil draws for me, 
As now I write these homely lines, 

Some sylph that loves o'er meads to rove. 

Or wander through the leafy grove, 
'Mid tangled vines. 

And cull the blossoms, wild and free. 

If such thou be, then may there bloom 
For thee an endless moon of flowers, 

So that for us thou mayest prolong 

The pleasing measure of thy song. 
In summer bowers, 

All safe from icy winter's gloom. 



THE RICHMONDS' HOME. 

Awake, my Muse, and breathe a fervent strain 
Of distant scenes I may not view again, 
And distant friends who in my absence share 
My kindest thoughts, as once did I their care. 

The Richmonds! at that name how quickly flies 
Imagination to their home which lies 
Where Midway's hills frown o'er the smiling vale, 
And rear their crests to thwart the northern gale, 
And where the Brandywine so stately glides 
To mingle with the Delaware's blue tides. 



THE RICHMONDS' HOME. 113 

And at that word how pleasure wakes, and pain, 

Within my soul an uncongenial train. 

Pain at the thought that we no more can meet, 

And speed the hours with social converse sweet; 

And pleasure that the past can still impart 

Remembrances delightful to the heart. 

Thus grief will ever mingle with our joy, 

And fond regrets our happiness alloy, 

And thus upon the changeful path of years, 

The clouds enshroud us or the sunshine cheers. 

But to me now sweet recollections come, 
And fancy's pencil paints the Richmonds' home. 
The fields of clover and the meadow green. 
Where flowed the murmuring brook in pearly sheen, 
The shady orchard and, beyond, the grove, 
Where lost in dreamy thought I loved to rove. 
When Autumn's dyes had decked the lordly trees. 
Whose giant boughs swayed to the sighing breeze, 
When the blythe squirrel garnered up his store 
Of frost-browned nuts against the Winter hoar, 
And the lone robin chirped a plaintive lay 
O'er the sad ruins of the Summer gay; 
The dark gray mansion with its pointed walls, 
O'er which the poplar's morning shadow falls; 
The porch round which the trellised roses bloom, 
And load the summer gale with sweet perfume;—' 
Of these how oft I think! for in that spot 
Of rural beauty it was once my lot 
There to sojourn a few brief months, and know 
The joys which kindness only can bestow. 

O ne'er shall I forget those happy hours. 
Which came to me as sunshine to the flowers; 
And as I haste adown life's rapid stream. 
Like blooming islands in the past they seem, 
And ever will their pleasing memories come 
To cheer my heart wherever I shall roam. 



114 THE EARLY DEAD. 



THE EARLY DEAD. 

How sweet they sleep who pass away 
In life's fair morn when all is gay! 
Like blighted flowers they gently fade, 
And in their narrow beds are laid 
By weeping Love who lingers round, 
And wets with tears each sacred mound. 
Like pleasant dreams they pass from sight, 
When life is pure, and all is bright; 
And though death seals each sunny eye. 
Though in the cold earth deep they lie, 
The fairest tints of vernal bloom 
In rich profusion deck the tomb; 
Affection strews fresh roses there, 
Which breathe their fragrance on the air, 
And on each grassy knoll are seen 
Meek violets peering through the green. 

Yes, sweetly in oblivion blest. 
Nor grief nor pain disturbs their rest. 
While angels o'er their slumbers keep 
A watch to guard their dreamless sleep, 
And Memory through many a year, 
To view the spot she holds most dear, 
Will sadly come from day to day. 
Till she too fades from earth away. 

But not for e'er their sleep will last, — 
O no, the dark hours vanish fast, 
And time will come when night shall flee, 
And fadeless light insteaxi shall be; 
And in that long-expected hour, 
When death shall know a Savior's power, 
When hope triumphant o'er the tomb. 
Shall issue from its midnight gloom, 
Then they, the early dead of earth. 
Shall waken to a purer birth: 
Each bud that here unopened dies. 
Shall fadeless bloom beyond the skies. 

Oct. 8, 1S57. 



LINES ON THE FUNERAL OF W. R. 115 



LINES ON THE FUNERAL OP W. R. 

Little we thought when our dear friend was leaving 
Radnor and home for the land of the foe, 

Little we thought of so early receiving 
Dust for the manly young form we saw go. 

When the last roses of summer were glowing, 
Hoping though grieving he went on his way; 

Little, alas! did we dream then of strewing 
Over his tomb the first blossoms of May. 

One unto whom his young faith had been plighted, 
Crushing on her the bereavement must fall, 

Quenching the beacon that hope had just lighted 
Over life's pathway, now desolate all! 

Who shall describe, too, a fond mother's sorrow, — 
Paint in its blackness affection's despair! 

But the long night ever ends in the morrow; 
Faith its horizon sees cloudless and clear. 

Wrapped in the flag which he died in defending. 
Him we now bear to a patriot's grave; 

Heart-rending sobs with soft, martial notes blending, 
Form a fit dirge for the loyal and brave. 

Calmer he'll rest in the bed we have made him. 
Close to the spot where in childhood he played, 

Than where the foe's bloody hands would have laid 
him, 
Far, far away in the Palmetto shade. 

May, 1862. 



116 THE SMITHY. 

THE SMITHY. 

(A Fragment.) 

The praises of the Smithy let me sing, 

While all around the busy anvils ring. 

Too long have martial heroes filled the place 

Of highest honor with the human race; 

Be mine to win the poets of our land 

To chant the merits of a noble band, 

Be mine to change the spirit of their lays, 

And crown the Blacksmith with immortal bays. 

A distant friend whom highly I esteem, 

Has given me for verse this simple theme. 

And when I think what gentle Cowper did. 

When of the humble sofa, at the bid 

Of lady fair, he wrote his matchless Task, 

The kindly muse that aided him I ask 

To lend my short and feeble pinions force, 

And buoy me gently upward in my course, 

While I of common things unsung before, 

Attempt a pleasing melody to pour. 

Beyond the reign of empires stretching far, 
Beyond the birth of chiefs and horrid war. 
Beyond the rushing waters of the flood 
That cleansed our planet from polluting blood, 
From Tubal-cain the sons of iron date 
Their origin and handicraft so great, 
He was the ancient founder of this school 
Whose precepts now enable man to rule 
Undoubted monarch of the land and sea. 
As God designed him from the first to be. 

The early workmanship of course was rude. 
And little profit at the first accrued 
To them who plied the blacksmith's useful trade, 
And wares uncouth of brass and iron made. 
The anvil was a, flinty rock or stone, 



A PROEM. in 

The use of windy bellows was unknown, 

A heavy lump of iron firmly bound 

Upon a shorten'd staff was used to pound 

The pliant metal which the furnace bright 

Had changed from blackness to a glowing white 

Invention then had but a feeble mind, 

And few and simple were the things designed; 

A hatchet, knife, a pointed arrow-head, 

A flat and clumsy plowshare, it is said 

By them whose views are sound beyond a doubt, 

Were first in Tubal 's Smithy hammered out. 



A PROEM. 

To thee my muse her humble gift would bring. 
And timidly would place it at thy feet. 

Ashamed that with so poor an offering. 
So fair and dear a presence she should greet. 

I know thou wilt not turn thy face away. 
Nor scorn to listen to her homely song, 

For kindness in thy heart holds constant sway. 
And tender sympathies to thee belong. 

And thou hast smiled upon her, and approved, 
Beyond her hope, her unskilled melodies, 

And gladdened by thy favor she is moved 
To try once more thy graciousness to please. 

There is sweet pleasure in beholding them 
Whose souls we feel are nobler than our own, 

Whose generous lives our selfish ways condemn, 
And fill us with high thoughts before unknown. 

Such is the feeling that my muse has borne. 
Making her seek thee still with timid eye 

Since first she saw thee on that sunny morn, 

When Autumn's glories filled both earth and sky, 



118 THE MAY QUEEN. 

Perhaps the glowing wonders of the scene 
That ever comes to veil the fading year, 

Forced her to find for all a fitting queen, 
That Autumn's splendor might not vain appear. 

But since she met thee, she has only used 
To see thee at a distance, and admire. 

Fearing to have the privilege refused, 
If she to friendship's nearness should aspire. 

Her wreath of song she brings with heart sincere; 

It is the best that she can gather now; 
Were it of jewels rare, it would appear 

Too plain to rest upon so fair a brow. 

And as the Greeks imagined it no wrong 

To crown Athena ruler of the air. 
So would my muse enthrone thee with her song, 

And robes of regal beauty bid thee wear. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

Who shall be Queen of May? 

The laughing children said, 
And wear on this fair day 

The garland round her head? 
For in their childish glee. 

They'd met upon the green 
With happy hearts and free, 

To choose their May-day Queen. 

The sun in splendor glowed 

From out a cloudless sky, 
Near them, a brooklet flowed 

With murmuring music by; 
The bird songs echoing rung 

Each field and woodland through. 
And on the grass and leaves there hung 

Bright drops of pearly dew. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 119 

"Who shall be qneen? said they: 

An answer soon was found; 
Minna shall be the Queen of May, 

Was heard from all around; 
In all the village none 

With Minna can compare; 
The May-crown she has fairly won, 

And worthily will wear. 

A gentle, modest maid 

With eyes of sweetest blue, 
Blushed at the words they said. 

Nor deemed the honor due. 
Queen she was chosen there, 

And on her brow they bound 
The spring flowers bright and fair, 

In wood and meadow found. 

Another year has past, 

A long and changeful year. 
Each day is gone at last. 

And May again is here. 
A pretty scene we see, 

And all is bright and gay. 
And birds are singing merrily 

To greet the sunny day. 

But she who wore the wreath 

Upon her forehead bound? 
Alasl her youthful form in death 

Lies silent, neath the ground. 
All summer long she played 

Unconscious of her doom. 
The Autumn saw her quickly fade. 

And sink into the tomb. 

And her companions meet to-day 

Upon the favorite green, 
They meet again but not to play. 
Nor choose their May-day queen. 



120 NOT DEATH BUT SLEEP. 

Oh no ! the flowers that they have found, 
They take with tearful eyes, 

And scatter on the little mound 
Where darling Minna lies. 



"NOT DEATH BUT SLEEP." 

O, say not death — 'tis only sleep! 
There angels o'er her slumbers keep 
A silent watch, and on her tomb 
The early rose will spread its bloom. 

The wintry blasts may fiercely blow 
And wrap her bed with ice and snow, 
But heedless of the raging storm. 
Will still repose that youthful form. 

Within the home where once she smiled. 
Her parents mourn their absent child, 
But all the tears that mothers weep, 
Can never wake her from her sleep. 

The Voice once heard at Bethany, 
Alone can set the sleeper free, — 
And from beneath the grassy mound. 
Bring her with life eternal crowned. 



LOVE. 121 



LOVE. 

The human heart was made for love, 
And though enjoying all beside, 

Its cherished wish, its fond desire 
Remains unsatisfied. 

Shame on the wretch who idly sneers 

At this the brightest, best 
Of all with which the Hand Divine 

Our needy race has blest. 

But pity them whom truth compels 
To say, I never yet have known 

One gentle, sympathizing heart 
That beat responsive to my own. 

For only they who all their lives 

Companionless have roved 
Can feel how drear it is to be 

Unloving and unloved. 

And if there be, as some believe, 
Men without souls who live and die 

Just like the brute, 'tis surely those 
Whom less than love can satisfy. 

Within the angels' far off land, 
Was born this mystic power, 

Thence to our earth it early came 
The light of Eden's bower. 

And even now though sin has marred 
Each pleasing scene beneath the skies, 

The good and true can ever find 
With love an earthly Paradise. 



12^: TO M. J. B. 

O give me, then, this priceless boon, 

To keep till life is o'er: 
If I have love and love's return, 

What can I wish for more? 



TO M. J. B. 

The lines you wrote when in the mood 
Which often springs from solitude, 
And seldom ends in any good. 

And which I call heart-sadness, 

Have come; and now in my own way, 
In humble verse I will essay 
To turn your twilight into day 

And touch the chords of gladness. 

That still are strung within your heart, 
Though Sorrow may with subtle art. 
Try to persuade that every part 
Of earthly joy has vanished. 

Do not believe the syren's tale! 
Looking from out the mourner's veil, 
With wrinkled brow and visage pale, 
Whence every thing is banished, 

Save that which savors of dull care, 
Of gloominess, and fell despair, 
She bids you her own aspect wear. 
And utter her repining. 

Turn from her to our golden dreams, 
Turn to that autumn sun whose beams, 
Turn to that wintry moon whose gleams, 

Like those bright dreams, were shining,- 



TO M. J. B. 123 

Did they behold a single joy 
That was not full of much alloy 
Which did its value all destroy, 
And keep us ever longing 

For that bright day when happy we 
An island bower in some lone sea 
Should find, to which we'd quickly flee, 
And each to each belonging, 

We'd taste within our Ellemwold 
The bliss which kindred hearts unfold, 
The bliss which sweet Romance oft told 
Our constancy would bring us, 

If we could only be away 
From those that crossed our selfish way, 
And marred the music of the lay 
That darling Love did sing us? 

' 'The best laid schemes of mice and men 
Oft gang aglee;" no wonder, then. 
That Love's blind eyes should fail to ken 
The future's adverse changes. 

Distance it is, remember too. 
That lends enchantment to the view, 
And decks the scenes with fairy hue. 
Wherever Fancy ranges. 

The buds of hope may swell and bloom, — 
'Tis oft to deck Fruition's tomb: 
Such was, it seems, the early doom 
Of many we selected. 

The joys of earth can never last; 
Like autumn leaflets in the blast, 
They're scattered from us far and fast, 
And leave us all neglected. 

Fame is a phantom that allures 

With some bright vision which endures 



124 TO M. J. B. 

A fleeting hour. She all secures 
Of which she can deprive us, 

Then leaves us to lament our lot, 
Leaves us by flatterers forgot, 
Leaves us alone, but leaves us not 
A name that will survive us. 

And Love — Alas! what has he done 
To millions who have madly run 
To grasp his shadow, and begun 
To think success is certain. 

How fiercely has the fickle god 
Laid on his dupes the chastening rod 
Till many a tear has wet the sod, — 
But Pity drops the curtain 1 

As here we wander to and fro, 
'Tis always well for us to know 
The founts from which our pleasures flow 
Are sometimes foul or baneful; 

And often in our wanderings 
A difference in progress brings 
To those who 're joined with silken strings, 
A pressure that is painful. 

Those thus united two by two 
Too oft forget what they should do 
A pleasant journey to pursue. 
And fail to step together. 

Lest this fault should be ours, my dear, 
Both head and heart we must keep near, 
Or else for hope and joy, I fear 
We may have sorrow rather. 

To you the past may seem more bright, 
To me the future's richer light 
Enraptures my inquiring sight 
Whene'er I turn to view it. 



TO M. J. B. 125 

It must, however, be confessed 
The present is by far the best, 
The very time in which we're blest, 
If we, dear one, but knew it. 

"We now are blessed beyond our thought, 
Although the beauteous isle we sought 
Is yet unfound; for all unbought 
We have what's always better, 

A host of friends whose Christian love 
And artless sympathies oft prove 
A foretaste of the joys above 

When we shall cast the fetter. 

We have "the Way, the Truth, the Life." 
Though ours the labor and the strife. 
Ours is the victory too, sweet wife, 
If we but strive to win it. 

A cloud of witnesses around. 
The blood of martyrs from the ground. 
The notes that from high heaven resound 
Of white-robed choirs within it. 

All urge us on to faith's emprise, 
That in the morning we may rise 
To meet our Leader in the skies, 
And drink of bliss supernal. 

Why then lament for garlands past. 
Why weep for blooms that never last, 
But wither at the first chill blast? 
Sow seed for flowers eternal, — 

Flowers that thou'lt wear with ecstasy 
In wreaths of immortality, 
When thou shalt join the minstrelsy 
Around the Throne of Glory. 

What wouldst thou more? — The days of old, 
The stolen looks, the dreams that told 



126 THE HUNTERS. 

A tale of life and Ellemwold, 

As dreams will tell the story? 

Alas! they're gone! — but many a throng 
Of choral memories all day long, 
Still sing for us that dear old song, 
"Indeed, I fondly love thee!" 

As in the By-gone, may we yet 

Still cling to hope's sure anchor, pet, 

Till all desires are fully met 

Far in the heavens above thee! 



THE HUNTERS. 

The leaves are off in Greenwood, 

The snow is on the ground; 
A prettier sight than Greenwood, 

Is nowhere to be found. 

We live in Greenwood's merry dell, 

And hunters keen are we. 
In Greenwood too we mean to dwell. 

And hunters we mean to be. 

At dawn of day when first the light 
Covers the east with ruddy sheen. 

None ever saw a fairer sight 
Than our hunter band I ween. 

Our dogs are like the game they chase. 

As fleet as Autumn's gale; 
Our prancing steeds to win the race 

Were never known to fail. 

The livelong day we track the deer 
With horse, and gun, and faithful hound; 

We fearless ride, and loud and clear, 
We wake the mountain echoes round. 



A WISH. li;7 

And when at eve we homeward hie, 
Fatigued by weight of slaughtered deer, 

Our hunters' cabin greets our eye, 
Our board is spread with hunters' cheer. 

When the leaves are off in Greenwood, 

And the snow is on the ground. 
Such merry feasts as Greenwood's 

Can nowhere else be found. 



A WISH. 

O give me some green, sunny isle, 
Far, far on the deep-sounding ocean, 

Where Spring ever dwells with her smile, 
And life is all free from commotion. 

My spirit is vexed with the strife, 
With the toil and the struggle is weary, 

As in the stern conflict of life, 

She faces a world cold and dreary. 

She hates every thought of the proud. 
The selfish, the vain, and the mulish, 

Whose language so boastful and loud. 
Betrays a mind little and foolish. 

The multitudes giddy and wild. 
Chase daily the phantom of pleasure, 

And daily with sin are defiled. 
Till crime is increased beyond measure. 

The worst are like demons below. 
The best are suspicious and chilling. 

While slanders incessantly grow. 
The innocent seizing and killing. 

From all I turn sickened away, — 
From noise, and contention, and riot, 



128 FORTUNE. 

From evils that secretly play, 
I turn with a yearning for quiet. 

I long for a sweet, quiet home 
Far, far from the steps of intrusion, 

Where follies and strife never come. 
Nor aught that engenders confusion. 

There happy with Nature I'd dwell, 
And gather fresh courage for duty ; 

My bosom with rapture would swell, 
As daily I gazed on her beauty. 

Then give me some green, sunny isle, 
Far, far on the deep-sounding ocean. 

Where Spring ever dwells with her smile, 
And life is all free from commotion! 



FORTUNE. 

Our path shall be strown with the sweetest 
of blossoms. 
Our sky shall be tinged with the brightest 
of blue. 
On us shall be lavished the favors of For- 
tune, 
Who fickle with others, to us shall be 
true I 



TO M. B. B. 129 



TO M. B. B. 

I met thee in the land of dreams last night, 

As Fancy led me to Owasco 's shore; 
Thy sweet face shone with heaven's unfading light, 

Yet thou wast fond and playful as of yore. 

what surprise that on this lower plain, 
Where life is but a sorrow and a tear, 

And hope the only solace of our pain. 
Thou whom our God has taken should 'st appear! 

Yet all seemed real, and the silver tone 
Of thy dear voice is with me even now, 

1 felt thee place thy hand within my own, 

And pressed the kiss of friendship on thy brow. 

And long we talked together of the days 
We spent beside Owasco 's sunny stream. 

Where first I learned to love thy childish ways. 
And our acquaintance grew to fond esteem. 

And strangely I forgot that thou art dead, 
Or deemed the story but an idle tale, — 

Forgot the bitter tears that sorrow shed 
On thy poor, coffined face so chill and pale. 

I may believe it was not all a dream: 
Thy spirit may have come at that lone hour, 

And whispered thoughts that to us mortals seem 
The fleeting work of sleep's mysterious power. 

For what are dreams of beauty and of joy, 
But the bright pictures that the angels trace 

Within our hearts of sadness, to destroy 
Our vain repining, and sweet Hope replace? 



130 THE RAIN. 



THE RAIN. 

I lie upon my bed, 

My hand beneath my head, 

And listen to the rain, 

The ever falling rain, 
The patter and the dropping of the rain. 

Across the sombre sky 
The leaden vapors lie, 

Chill fountains of the rain. 

The swift-descending rain 
That coldly beats against the window pane. 

Now to myself I seem 
To wander in a dream, 

But still I hear the rain, 

The wildly dashing rain, 
The patter and the dropping of the rain. 

Sweet pictures of the Past 
Appear before me fast, 

But vanish while the rain. 

The sorrow-laden rain 
Recalls me quickly to myself again. 

What sadness fills my heart. 
As my visions all depart, 

And leave me but the rain, 

The idle, mocking rain, 
The patter and the dropping of the rain. 

Ah, why was I e'er born, 
To lie here all forlorn, 

And hear the gloomy rain, 

The hope-deriding rain. 
Whose cruel echoes fill my heart with pain. 



AN EPIGRAM. 131 

'Twill beat upon my tomb, 
From skies of wintry gloom: 
Shall I then hear the rain, 
The grieving, sobbing rain, 
The patter and the dropping of the rain? 



AN EPIGRAM. 

Give thy thoughts to what is true, 
Useful things be prompt to do. 
Love the beautiful and good, 
In the world be understood 
Ever as the friend of right, 
Loyal to the King of light. 
More than gold and rubies be 
Unto thee, O friend, these three 
Sacred faith, hope, charity. 
Gulielmus-William. 



CHRIST TRIUMPHANT. 

Be glory, honor, power, to him our King, 
Who sits enthroned above the crystal sphere; 

Let angels now their grandest anthems sing. 
And all the universe his praises hear. 

No more he lives in scenes of sin and woe, 
The Lamb of God among the beasts of prey, 

No more he daily feels his sorrows grow, 
As through a hostile world he takes his way. 

No more his bitter tears bedew the sod. 
No more he wears the robe and thorny crown, 

No more forsaken by his friends and God, 
With breaking heart he lays life's burden down. 



132 CONTENT, 

Exalted now above the heavens high, 
He wears the crown of joy upon his brow; 

O'erwhelmed and crushed the powers of darkness lie, 
While at his feet the hosts seraphic bow. 

Come forth, astonished heavens and rescued earth, 
Your mighty King Jehovah's Son adore! 

And conquered hell, proclaim thy Victor's worth, 
Whose glorious reign endures forevermore. 



CONTENT. 

I cannot change my mode of life, 
To suit the fashions of the hour, 

Or stop to join the noisy strife 
Of man with man for wealth or power. 

The simple dress, the frugal meal, 
The humble cottage by the stream. 

Our outward penury reveal, — 
I let them pass for what they seem. 

Yet I am rich, I dwell in state, 
The best of all things are my own; 

I envy none, however great. 
My campstool is an empire's throne. 



BRANDYWINE. 133 



BRANDYWINE. 

O Brandywine, romantic stream, 

Who has not heard thy name! 
Thy banks where lovers rove and dream 

Are linked with deathless fame; 
Thy startled waters once beheld 

War's bloody standard reared, 
When helm and plume in days of eld 

Upon thy marge appeared. 

Ere yet the frost had decked the corn 

With Autumn's yellow dye, 
The battle trump awoke the morn 

Beneath September's- sky; 
And Washington beside thy ford 

The day was forced to yield. 
And Lord Cornwallis waved his sword 

In triumph o'er the field. 

Oh! dark the hour for Liberty, 

When bursting through thy flood, 
Rushed England's dauntless chivalry 

Athirst for fame and blood! 
Wayne, fierce as tiger on the spring. 

Closed with them hand to hand, 
The Britons battling for their king, 

Wayne for his native land. 

Thy hills then trembled at the sound, 
And crimson flowed thy tide. 

As doubtful conflict o'er the ground 
Swept fierce from side to side. 

But Victory with partial scale 
To British banners fled, 



134 FOR AN ALBUM. 

And Liberty was left to wail 
Heart-broken o'er her dead. 

Far other scene, O Brandywine, 

Thy stream presents to-day, 
For peace and freedom now are thine 

Beneath the sky of May; 
Now crystal flows thy rippling tide 

Thy flowery banks between, 
And spring's delighted warblers glide 

Among thy willows green. 

So when the strife of life is past, 

Though Death the victor be, 
May I, triumphant at the last. 

The reign of beauty see; 
Where more refreshing waters flow, 

May fadeless joys be mine. 
And brighter scenes around me glow 

Than thine, O Brandywine! 



FOR AN ALBUM. 

To thee my Muse her humble gift would bring, 
And timidly would lay it at thy feet. 

Ashamed that with so poor an offering 
So fair and dear a presence she should greet. 

\ know thou wilt not turn thy face away, 
Nor scorn to listen to her humble song. 

For kindness in thy heart holds constant sway, 
And tender sympathies to thee belong. 

Yea, thou hast smiled upon her, and approved, 
Beyond her hope, her unskilled melodies. 

And gladdened by thy favor she is moved 
To try once more thy graciousness to please. 



FOR AN ALBUM. 135 

If, then, regardless of the rules of art. 
She follows whither vagrant Fancy flies, 

No need has she to act the fawner's part. 
Nor for her simple thoughts apologize. 

There is a pleasure in the sight of them 
Whose lives we feel are nobler than our own, 

Whose generous deeds our selfish ways condemn 
And lead to higher aims before unknown. 

To such we love submissively to bow. 
Forgetful of the cold and sneering crowd, 

With such in childlike artlessness allow 
Our lips to speak our secret thoughts aloud. 

Such is the feeling that my Muse has borne. 
Making her seek thee still with timid eye, 

Since first she saw thee on the sunny morn 
When autumn's glory filled both earth and sky. 

Perhaps the glowing wonders of the scene 
That ever comes to veil the fading year. 

Forced her to find for all a fitting queen. 
That autumn's splendor might not vain appear. 

But since she met thee she has only used 
To see thee at a distance, and admire, 

Fearing to have the privilege refused. 
If she to friendship's nearness should aspire. 

Her wreath of song she brings with heart sincere; 

It is the best that she can gather now; 
Were it of jewels rare it would appear 

Too plain to rest upon so fair a brow. 

And as the Greeks imagined it no wrong 

To crown Athena ruler of the air, 
So would my Muse enthrone thee with her song, 

And robes of regal beauty bid thee wear. 



136 MILLIE. 



MILLIE. 

Dear Millie, the golden-haired, 

I think I see her still. 
As in the days of our childish plays 

At the school-house on the hill. 

Mount Pleasant the place was called, 

Of learning's plain abode, 
That lonely stood by the chestnut wood. 

Beside the old Gulf Road. 

She was but a country child, 

Unskilled in Fashion's lore, 
Yet a fairer face with a sweeter grace 

No city maiden wore. 

With music her soul was filled. 

And gladsome songs she sung. 
Which many a bird with envy heard, 

Tredyffrin's groves among. 

Her future she thought would be 

All free from toil and care; 
Her hopes would live, and each year would give 

Of joy an untold share. 

And who has not thought the same? 

We are dreamers, one and all, 
And the visions sweet mislead our feet. 

Till in the grave we fall. 

And thus with Millie it proved, 

For Fortune turned unkind. 
And gave her alloy for the golden joy 

She fondly hoped to find. 



MILLIE. 137 

She married a heartless wight — 

A slave to pipe and bowl, — 
And labor and tears filled up the years, 

And the music left her soul. 

Her cheeks all their bloom then lost, 

Her hair its golden sheen, 
And a care-worn dame with a homely name, 

The household drudge, was seen. 

Thus beauty and love depart, 

And men forget their sway, 
Thus the bright Ideal in the gloomy Real 

All sadly fades away. 

The vale our young Fancy roved 

Along its flowery streams, 
In later years a valley of tears 

And desolate ruins seems. 

Yet well for us all if hope 

Still lingers in the soul, 
That the tempest-tossed and the travel-lost 

Will reach at last their goal. 

And well if the glorious land 

Our youthful dreams foretold, 
With its fadeless flowers shall then be ours 

When we its King behold. 



138 HOPE. 



HOPE. 

Oh! long delayed have been the sunny days 
Of the loved springtime, and the sprightly lays 
Of bluebird and of robin; but, at last. 
The snows of winter vanish, and the blast 
Gives place to soothing breezes, nor in vain 
Upon the bleak earth falls the gentle rain. 

Once more from out the South the melting air 
Moves soft o'er field and woodland, and the fair 
Young flowers, awakened from their wintry sleep, 
Come forth, and our glad eyes now daily reap 
Harvests of beauty, as we wander slow, 
Where violets and sweet arbutus grow. 

In all this wondrous change may we not find 

Some token that the Future will be kind? 

That time no longer envious will bring 

To our sad hearts the brightness of the spring? 

Then let us cherish hope: if we do well. 

Our coming years shall all our past excel. 



CENTENNIAL HYMN. 130 



CENTENNIAL HYMN. 

Amid these ancient mountains, 

Within the forest shade, 
Beside the crystal fountains 

That God himself has made, 
We meet to hear the story 

Of Liberty so grand, 
And praise the Lord of glory 

Whose bounty fills our land. 

All nature here rejoices 

Beneath the summer sky; 
Come then, with happy voices 

And raise our anthem high, 
Come, praise the God of blessing 

Whose throne is fixed above, 
Come all His Christ confessing. 

And sing his wondrous love. 

Let all these woodlands airy 

Re-echo with our lay, 
While Freedom's Centenary 

We celebrate to-day; 
Let Love and adoration 

To Him the Lord of all. 
Fill us and all our nation, 

While on His name we call. 

His words of life we'll cherish. 
Inscribed in every heart. 

Lest we forever perish 
When we from earth depart; 

Our spirits with the beauty 
Of holiness we'll fill, 



140 CENTENNIAL. POEM. 

Intent on every duty, 
Avoiding every ill. 

May blessings still attend us 

Through all the years to come, 
And God's right arm defend us 

Until we reach our home, 
Where we shall sing the story 

Of everlasting grace. 
And in the realms of glory 

Behold our Father's face. 



CENTENNIAL. POEM. 

July 4, 1876. 

A hundred years, a hundred years. 
With all their smiles, with all their tears, 
Have vanished since our native land 
In Freedom's cause first raised her hand, 
And struck those blows whose echoes still 
All hearts with joy and wonder thrill. 

And now we come with grateful lay, 

To celebrate the golden day 

On which our fathers pledged their all, 

Life, fortune, honor, at the call 

Of Liberty whose morning star 

Shone faintly through the clouds afar. 

O muse, that erst on Hellas' shore 
To Homer taught thy sacred lore, 
And who in Freedom's after days 
Crowned Milton with immortal bays, 
Inspire us, and our souls expand 
With mem'ries of our heroes grand! 

O noble men were they who stood 
Rock-like against the swelling flood 



TO HYGEIA. 14J 

Of tyranny that swept our strand, 
And threatened to engulf our land; 
Aye, noble men whose every name 
Is worthy of eternal fame! 

Our nation in a day was born, 
While they became her hope forlorn, 
And never faltered, never feared, 
Until this land, to us endeared, 
With peace was crowned, and Liberty 
Her scepter waved from sea to sea. 

'Twere long to tell what they performed, 
V/hile love of home their bosoms warmed 
To finish all they had begun, 
And leave for us the land they won; 
Through cold and hunger, toil and pain. 
Did they the boon of freedom gain. 

No common strife did they begin. 

No common triumph did they win; 

It was a deed of grand emprise 

They dared beneath these western skies. 

When leagued Oppression back they hurled 

All shattered to the olden world. 



TO HYGEIA. 

Hygeia, sprightly blooming maid, 
In strength and gracefulness arrayed, 
I fain would know the reason why 
With me of late thou art so shy. 
So painfully reserved and cold. 
And not the candid friend of old. 

In years agone thou wast not coy. 
For thou didst guard me when a boy. 



142 TO HYGEIA. 

With me didst play from morn till night, 
And ever watch me through the night. 
I prized thee highly, and thy smile 
Afforded gladness all the while. 
Encouraged by thy cheering eye, 
On distant journeys I would fly, 
Climb trees the tallest of the wood, 
Or fearless breast the rolling flood. 
No sport or labor then to me 
Seemed hard if countenanced by thee. 
But since thou art no longer nigh. 
In helpless solitude I sigh; 
The buoyancy of youth is fled, 
And I am like one almost dead; 
No longer rugged as of old, 
I needs must guard against the cold; 
Avoiding winds at which I laughed, 
I must e'en shun the slightest draft, 
Watch all the changes of the air. 
And guard against them with all care; 
Don overshoes and overcoat. 
And muffle up my tender throat, 
If I would venture out of doors 
When Boreas our land explores; 
Be careful, too, of all my food. 
Lest I offend my squeamish blood. 
And what with whims and real wants, 
My life of small enjoyment vaunts. 

Not so when thou wast ever by. 
Inspiring me with thy bright eye. 
Until I felt so brave and strong. 
That I could labor all day long. 
And confident that I with thee 
Could compass every land and sea. 

Hygeia, why art thou so cold? 
Why not regard me as of old? 
I know thou dost on others smile. 
But this does not my temper rile, 



TO HYGEIA. 143 

For I am not of that poor make 

Offence at other's gain to take; 

So when I plead, not jealousy, 

But pining want I urge with thee. 

Without thee all seems desolate, 

And I, consigned to cruel fate, 

Am pestered night and day with ills, 

In spite of doctors and of pills, 

Or rather, I should truly write, 

My ills were formerly in spite 

Of all belonging to the trade 

Of quackery, of which, afraid, 

I finally discarded all 

That smells of Galen's nauseous stall; 

All drugs and potions I forswore, 

For they but made my trouble more. 

But then my troubles do not leave. 

Although my choice affords reprieve 

From nasty doses made to cure 

Not invalids, but leanness sure 

Of doctor's purse and druggist's till, 

Which credulous we strive to fill. 

I drove Hippocrates away. 
Why didst thou not return, I pray, 
Hygeia, once kind-hearted maid, 
And grant me thy unfailing aid? 
I tried, thou knowest, each device 
And tempted thee with all things nice, 
Cool water from the mountain springs. 
And Graham gems, delicious things, 
Ripe fruits of every luscious kind. 
That I thought suited to thy mind; 
These baits I offered and far more, 
Too tedious to be counted o'er, 
But all in vain; thou dost not come. 
To all my urging deaf and dumb. 
Thou wilt not hear, thou wilt not tell 
What I must do that would be well 
Designed to win thy love again. 



144 AT mother's grave. 

And make me now as glad as when 
I I'oved with thee o'er hill and dale, 
And thought thy love would never fail* 
I know I often used thee ill, 
When I was miffed, as lovers will. 
But thou dost know I ne'er designed 
To treat thee in a way unkind, 
I thought to show a little spite, 
And thus to bring the matter right. 
But now, Hygeia, do forgive. 
Return with me again to live; 
I love thee more than books or wealth 
Or babbling fame, Hygeia, Health! 



AT MOTHER'S GRAVE. 

Oh! mother, my mother! 

Asleep in the valley at last! 
Earth's joys and its sorrows 

For thee, my poor mother, are past. 

I stand in the fullness 

Of Spring and her glory to-day. 
All desolate, mother, 

Though Nature is sunny and gay. 

I care not, poor mother. 

That roses are blooming around; 
They bring me no pleasure 

Since thou art laid under the ground. 

In sweet early childhood. 

When life's sky was azure and gold, 
I never dreamed, mother. 

Thou here wouldst lie silent and cold. 

I recollect, mother, 
Those days now evanished so long. 



AT MOTHER'S GRAVE. 145 

"When hither thou leddest 
Me feeble, thou sprightly and strong. 

But changeful years, mother, 
To me strength and hopefulness lent, 

While thee, my poor mother. 
With age and with sickness they bent^ 

Alas! at the longest, 

Our earthly existence how brief! 
In life's chilling autumn 

We fade and we fall as a leaf. 

All past is the winter. 

Here again are the blossom and bee. 
In garments of beauty 

Spring trips through the forest and lea. 

Has Death, too, a springtime, 

When our cherished blossoms revive? 

Does Night bring a Morning 
When loved ones again are alive? 

Yes, answers the prayer 
Thou early didst teach me to say: 

"Thy Kingdom come, Father," 
And hasten, O Christ, the glad day. 

My bruised heart, as thine did. 
Believes in the crowned Nazarene, 

Assured He'll let nothing 
Between us and Him intervene. 

O joyful the meeting 

Of father, and thee, and the rest 
Of us, thy sad household, — 

Then rescued, immortalized, blestl 
Great Valley, Pa., 1874. 



146 THE GLORY OP THE LORD. 



THE GLORY OP THE LORD. 

I stand upon the mount where stood of old, 
Transfigured once, the Christ of Galilee; 

And faith recalls the vision: I behold 
The glory of his kingdom, and I see. 

With Peter, James and John the wondrous cloud, 

And with them hear God's voice so clear and loud. 

In the beginning first that voice was heard 
Startling the reign of Chaos and old Night: 

And all the depths of gloom and silence stirred 
With the divine command, "Let there be light!" 

And light there is, and in it all rejoice 

Who list attentive to that heavenly voice. 

And in it I rejoice, as now I view 

The splendor of his kingdom and his throne. 
By valor won, by conduct pure and true. 

Christ sought God's will, and making that alone 
The measure of all duty, he became 
Our Captain, crowned with everlasting fame. 

Obedience was the path which upward led 
Our Christ to conquest matchless and complete, 

In which he bruised the lying Serpent's head, 
And crushed the powers of darkness under feet, 

A victory like his can now be won. 

If we but heed the voice, Hear ye mv Son. 

I stand upon the mount — around me shines 
The brightness of an everlasting morn. 

The stars sing sweet, my soul no more repines, 
But into life anew and hope is born, 

And in its peerless beauty now I see 

The place in Paradise reserved for me. 



SPRING. 147 

In Christ I trust, I look for his return, 

I patient wait the advent of the day [burn, 

When through the heavens his chariot wheels shall 

And every nation yield unto his sway, 
And when in rich profusion shall be poured 
Millennial blessings on the earth restored. 



SPRING. 

lovely Spring, I've waited long, 
With anxious heart, to meet thee. 

And now accept the humble song 
With which I come to greet thee. 

Not mine to summon to mine aid 
From Tempe's vale the muses. 

For to my verse each heavenly maid 
Her kindly aid refuses. 

Yet shall I from my song refrain, 
Though trite the thought and measure? 

1 know that naught will give thee pain 
That gives to me but pleasure. 

Spring, how often in the days 
Of winter stern and dreary, 

1 thought of thee, and longed to gaze 
On scenes that never weary. 

Such are the scenes where oft my feet 

Amid thy blossoms wander, 
And where my soul in musings sweet 

Upon thy beauties ponder. 

O Spring, when I was but a boy, 
I gave my heart in keeping 



148 LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 

To thee whose pleasures never cloy, 
Nor end in bitter weeping. 

I've loved thee more than miser loves 
His heaps of golden treasure; 

And Time, the Changer, only proves 
My love increased in measure. 

And though my heart has often bled, 
And Hope forgot the morrow, 

Thy hand has ever raised my head, 
And given joy for sorrow. 

Then ever with thee let me rove, 
O Spring, my cheery maiden. 

While all the air in field and grove 
With sweet perfume is laden! 



LINES FOR AN ALBUM. 

No careless thought nor language cold 

Should on the page appear, 
When we address the friends we hold 

Beyond all others dear; 
Some pleasing subject we should take 

And words of winning tone, 
That as they read them we may make 

Their feelings like our own. 

But where, alas, such pleasing theme, 

Or where such words to find, 
I cannot tell, so feeble seem 

The efforts of my mind. 
Then what remains but here to say, 

I leave you to surmise 
What matchless verse I would display 

Before your wondering eyes ! 



TO THE WOODTHRUSH. 149 



TO THE WOODTHRUSH. 

Pretty warbler of the spring, 
Welcome to thy native home, 

Here shall rest thy weary wing, 
Nothing tempted now to roam. 

While on winter's icy bands 
Glanced the sun's retiring beams, 

Thou in distant summer lands 
Warbledst by the flowery streams. 

Oft the dark-eyed Indian maids, 
Lured by thy enchanting lay. 

Sought the sombre forest shades, 
As the sunlight died away. 

Their enraptured spirits heard, 
Floating on the zephyrs bland. 

Echoes in thy music, bird, 
From the wondrous sunset land. 

And the swarthy chieftain, too, 

Listened often to thy song, 
As he steered his frail canoe 

Orellana's marge along. 

Visions of the warrior's home 

In the isles bey6nd the sea. 
Where the brave forever roam. 

Filled his soul with ecstasy. 

Now sweet May with gentle showers. 
And the balmy southern breeze, 

Spreads our northern land with flowers, 
Robes in green our leafless trees. 



150 TO THE WOODTHRUSH. 

But the brightest vernal dawn 
Would but gild a solitude, 

Were thy flute-like music gone, 
Peerless songster of the wood. 

At the opening of the day, 
Just as Sol begins his reign, 

Often in the woodlands gray, 
Have I listened to thy strain. 

And at evening's quiet hour, 
When the sun had vanished long, 

And the night begun to lower. 
Have I heard thy plaintive song. 

Like the power of magic art. 
Or some fairy's potent spell, 

Stole thy music o'er my heart. 
Waking thoughts I could not tell. 

Warmest welcomes to thee, bird, 
Loved companion of the spring, 

May thy music long be heard 
Making all our woodlands ringl 



A MORNING CONCERT. 151 



A MORNING CONCERT. 

The darkness is flying-, the daylight appears, 
And the song of a robin falls sweet on my ears. 

His red-breasted fellows soon join in the strain, 
And far-ringing echoes take up the refrain. 

A score of musicians are now in my sight, 
Swinging high on the tree-tops inmorning'sfaintlight. 

No flutist can equal the rich, varied notes 

That gush, like a fountain, so clear from their throats. 

They sing as if sorrows to them were unknown, 
And purest of pleasures were ever their own. 

O, thus do they worship their Maker on high, 
With incense of music that floats to the sky ! 

If so, let the angels repeat the wild strains, 

Till the chorus resounds o'er the heavenly plains! 

Could I, like the robins, glide swift through the air, 
I'd join in their carol, and banish all care. 

From earth then departing, I'd seek the bright land, 
Where Eternity's ocean is washing the strand. 

I'd join the great Concert where Shining Ones raise. 
With voices celestial, the anthem of praise. 



152 EXPECTATION. 



EXPECTATION. 

Our souls are often yearning for the bright 
And beautiful that shall not pass away, 

And look impatient for the fadeless light 
Whose dawn shall turn our darkness into day. 

And we have painted what our lives might be, 
With brilliant tints from Fancy's choicest store. 

But all our pictures day by day we see 
Fade into gloom, to cheer us nevermore. 

Then, turning from the earth our tearful eyes, 
We dream of pleasure in some world unseen, 

Of rapture in some land beyond the skies, 
Whose bowers of beauty are forever green. 

Oh! can it be that all our dreams are vain? 

That madly we the tales of hope believe? 
That on the shores of time lies all our gain? 

And Faith's enchanting visions but deceive? 

O no! the stormy main will yet be passed, 
The land of joy and beauty we shall see, 

Each sweet ideal will arise at last 
Clad in the robes of immortality. 



SUNSHINE. 153 



SUNSHINE. 

O Sunshine of the joyous morn, 
Out of the cloudless ether born, 
Pouring thy gold upon my study floor, 
I bless thee o'er and o'er. 

Last eve the sky was dark with cloud 
And tempest, lowering fierce and loud, 
Upon the drenched and hope-forgetting earth, ' 
Now full of light and mirth. 

Deep from the chalice of delight, 
Thrice happy to escape the night. 
All creatures drink, and lift the voice of praise, 
Inspired by thy sweet rays. 

Shall I to whom more hopes belong 
Seek less to raise my feeble song 
Than these which only sensuous blessings share. 
Thy light with food and air? 

Swifter than thy bewildering flight, 
My faith flies up thy path so bright, 
Enraptured, Sunshine, to His brighter throne, 
Thy Maker's and my own. 



154 A REPROOF. 



A REPROOF. 

I praise thee not, O giddy, fickle Maiden! 

Thy heart and conscience all perverse have grown. 
And thou art so with worldly burdens laden, 

That I thy friendship can no longer own. 

Are there for girlhood's days no field of duty? 

No thoughts beyond deceitful pleasure's sway? 
No light but that of vain, external beauty, 

Which like the dew of morning flies away? 

"With dress and caller, promenade and party. 
Thou wasteth all thy youth's sweet, precious years 

For fools' applause, and rivals' hatred hearty. 
Thy own disgust, and Pity's useless tears. 

Awaken out of Folly's low delusion. 
Come forth into the light of Wisdom's morn, 

Leave Vanity, and Fashion's coarse profusion. 
False Pride's ignoble aims and fate forlorn. 

So shall thy life rise into joys transcendent. 
And golden fruitage all thy cares repay, 

And thou shalt reign in spotless robes resplendent, 
The queen of pleasures that shall ne'er decay. 



MEMORY'S BELLS. 155 



MEMORY'S BELLS. 

Still floating' on, and floating- on, 
Adown the stream of time, 

How often as the day is gone, 
We hear at eve the chime 

Of Memory's mystic bells. 

Still floating on, and floating on, 
E'en from the earliest hour, 

When life and hope are in the dawn, 
The soul can feel the power 
Of Memory's fairy bells. 

Still floating on, and floating on, 
'Neath childhood's rosy sky. 

Their mystic tones will steal upon 
The heart, and wake a sigh, — 
The tones of Memory's bells. 

Still floating on, and floating on. 

Within each later year, 
For each bright scene forever gone, 

We oft in sadness hear 

The chime of Memory's bells. 

Still floating on, and floating on. 

And nearing still the sea, 
They toll for all of earth that's gone. 

Till we from earth are free. 

Sweet Memory's mystic bells. 



156 AUTUMN. 



AUTUMN. 



How sad to rove 

Withia the grove 
When autumn clouds the sky, 

And all around 

Upon the ground 
The withered blossoms lie. 

Loosed by the breeze, 

From oflf the trees 
The leaves are falling slow, 

And far and wide 

The forest's pride 
Lies on the cold earth low. 

The bird of song 

Has vanished long, 
And sought a milder home 

In southern vales, 

Where chilling gales 
And frosts can never come. 

Stern ruin reigns 

O'er all the plains 
Where summer held her sway, 

And in my mind 

But gloom I find 
Throughout the dreary day. 

Yet in these woods 

And solitudes 
Who would not rather be 

Than in the loud 

And giddy crowd 
That surges like the sea! 



LIFE. 157 



LIFE. 



I stand upon the shore: the sea of life 
Before me lies in turbulence and mystery; 

And sadly I behold the constant strife 
Between man's wishes and his destiny. 

From nothingness we enter into time 
Controlled by laws we made not, but obey 

As slaves their masters. Filled with thoughts sublime 
We crawl in dust, and perish in a day. 

Why are we? and for what strange purpose come 
To earth, whose powers oppress us and destroy? 

We die, but do we live again? What home 
Awaits us? — one of grief or endless joy? 

O Mystery ! thou scornest all our thought 
To solve thee; helpless at thy feet we fall: 

Something from nothing, wondrous life from nought, 
This may we know, but this, alas! is all. 

Where Reason stumbles helpless and undone, 
Faith soars beyond the darkness into light; 

She hears, she sees, till what she seeks is won. 
And with the sun of Truth dispels our night. 

We are because God made us, and we live 
To taste his goodness, and return him praise; 

We hope what his enduring love will give 
To them who trust in him in all their ways. 

O Nazarene, whose brief existence here 

The mystery of mysteries reveals, 
We cling to thee, and never more have fear: 

Thy word our happiness forever seals. 



158 DECEIVED. 



DECEIVED. 

I thought her innocent and strong, 
A being of angelic mold, 
Whose life in beauty would unfold, 

Nor dreamed that she could do me wrong. 

Those purifying aims that raise 
The soul above ignoble things, 
And lend it Hope's aspiring wings, 

I missed indeed in all her ways. 

But I was blinded, and I thought 
That I could teach her what I knew. 
And time would show the good and true 

That in her life I fondly sought. 

And all I asked for she professed. 
And spoke of love and sympathy. 
And vowed them solemnly for me. 

But knew them not, much less possessed. 

I gave her all I had — ^my trust. 
My confidence amid the strife, 
The bitter struggles of my life, — 

But found her made of vulgar dust. 

Seduced by selfishness she fled, 
But backward like the Parthian hurled 
At me, before the jeering world, 

Her darts envenomed, as she sped. 



2MEETING AND PARTING. 159 



MEETING AND PARTING. 

We met in the russet autumn, 
By the banks of Vernon river, 

While on the trees the wayward breeze 
Made every sear leaf quiver. 

We met in the dreamy autumn. 
When the heart is filled with sadness, 

And a strange unrest in every breast 
Dispels all thought of gladness. 

We met in the tearful autumn, 
When the lonely year was sighing 

For pleasures fled and children dead 
And for herself now dying. 

We met in the boding autumn, 

But met, alas, to sever. 
And like a knell our last farewell 

Sounds in our hearts forever! 



160 IN VAIN. 



IN VAIN. 



It may be she is good and true 
When in her sober, second thought, 

But what can late repentance do 
To mend the mischief she has wrought? 

She broke the precious vase of love. 

And cast its ottar all away; 
My prayers her anger failed to move, 

My tears her ruthless hand to stay. 

Now she has lost her wonted power 
To change the purpose of my heart; 

I leave her only sorrow's dower. 
As free and gladsome I depart. 



THE BAPTISM. 

It was the first day of the week, 
A day when thoughtful Christians seek 
To meditate upon the ways 
Of Deity, and render praise. 
I wandered forth. 'Twas afternoon; 
Above, the cloudless sky of June. 

With careless steps I sauntered on, 
Till suddenly I came upon 
A group of people gathered near 
A stream of water deep and clear. 
A man — a preacher as I found- 
Stood by them on a rise of ground. 
I learned that they had come to see 



THE BAPTISM. 161 

A sight unusual then to me — 
To see the pious preacher lave 
Some converts in the limpid wave. 

The rite already was performed, 
But he, with kindling fervor warmed, 
Was preaching to the listening crowd, 
With accents earnest but not loud, 
Exhorting them to heed the word, 
And yield obedience to the Lord. 
When he had ended silence reigned; 
His zeal, I thought, had nothing gained. 

I wrongly thought, for one was moved 
To act as her belief behooved. 
A maiden stepped from out the throng, 
Whose face I shall remember long; 
A maiden with a brow serene, 
On which faith, hope, and love were seen. 
Enrobed in white she meekly came 
To make confession of the name 
Of Him whom now and evermore 
Both saints and seraphim adore. 
"Dost thou believe with all thy heart, " 
The preacher said, as she apart 
Stood from the rest and raised her head, 
"In Jesus, First Born from the dead?" 
The maiden answered with a nod, 
"He is the Christ, the Son of God; 
In Him my confidence I rest. 
In Him alone can I be blest; 
God helping me I will to-day 
The Gospel of my Lord obey. 
All earthly things I count as loss 
That I may glory in His cross. " 

The good man took her by the hand, 
And down they walked upon the sand; 
Before their steps the waves divide 
Clear as the Jordan's sacred tide; 



162 THE BAPTISM. 

And as they go a holy song 

Resounds the shady banks along. 

Now silent yi the stream they stand; 

The preacher slowly lifts his hand: 

"Into the name of Father, Son, 

And Holy Spirit, three in one, 

I now baptize thee in the name 

Of Jesus who to save thee came; 

Buried within the yielding wave. 

Like Christ within the rocky grave, 

Thy sins, through his most precious blood. 

Are all remitted in this flood; 

Arising then to life renewed, 

Attest to him thy gratitude. 

By holy faith and works of love. 

Till hope is realized above." 

He said, and then with tender care 
Immersed the maiden young and fair. 
A moment hidden from our sight. 
Again she rises to the light; 
Calm as the summer's dewy morn 
Out of the water she is born, 
And fairer far she seemed to be 
Than Venus rising from the sea; 
Serene as summer's brightest day. 
She shone, rejoicing in that way 
Long sought, but now in Jesus found, 
Where pardon, peace, and love abound. 



CROTON POND. 163 



CROTON POND. 

Surrounded by wood-covered hills, 

Except on the northerly side, 
And fed by the swift flowing rills, 

The millpond extends itself wide. 
It mirrors the changeable skies, 

Which gaze there eternally down, 
Now bright as a maiden's blue eyes. 

Now dark with the storm-demon's frown. 

How often, when I was a boy, 

I came in the hot summer days. 
In its cool, limpid depths to enjoy 

Relief from the sun's burning rays. 
Here with my companions I played, 

Diving deep to the gravelly floor, 
Or proof of rash bravery made 

By venturing far from the shore. 

O crystalline waters, one morn 

Ye witnessed a sorrowful sight, 
When out of your depths was upborno 

Poor Hiram again to the light 1 
He was missing, and search being made, 

His cap was picked up by the shore. 
Where often with us he had played 

So gaily the summer before. 

Men dragged the deep bottom, and found 

His body all lifeless and cold: 
A funeral train and a mound. 

And Hiram's sad story is told. 
O waters that mirror the skies 

And picture the trees on your breast. 
May he in the grave where he lies 

Sleep calmly as you in your rest! 



164 A FRAGMENT. 



A FRAGMENT. 

Put aside that volume, and come, I pray. 

For I would, dear one, have a stroll to-day. 

While the autumn sun on the landscape fair 

Is pouring his light through the cloudless air. 

Too intent, I fear, do our minds run o'er 

The commonplace language of human loi^e; 

Let us read awhile upon earth and sky 

The words there imprinted for every eye. 

The heavens declare the glory of God, 

And ,the tiniest flower that springs from the sod 

Bespeaks for its author a matchless skill. 

Consummate wisdom, and infinite will. 

But concerning the home where man shall abide 

And his fate after crossing the mystical tide 

Which flows between Time's and Eternity's strand, 

Not a word is there written on sky, sea, or land. 

Though some may imagine they truly can scan 

By searching their spirits the future of man, 

And pierce through the shadows of death that conceal, 

A land which none but a God can reveal. 

Proud dreamers are we if we question our souls 

For that knowledge which He the Highest controls. 

We ask — we listen — no answer can come, — 

Both our souls and our bodies like Nature ai-e dumb. 



GREAT VALLEY CHURCH. 165 



GREAT VALLEY CHURCH. 

What changes astonish as hither I come 

Once more to this sacred retreat, 
Where often I came from my childhood's loved home, 

With the worshiping people to meet. 
The walls are the same, but the woodwork is changed — 

A doubtful improvement, I ween — 
The furniture fashion has deftly arranged, 

And nothing antique can be seen. 

I enter the door and sit down in a pew, 

And notice the people around; 
Their dresses are modish, their faces are new, 

Among them a stranger I'm found. 
No doubt as they cast a stray glance upon me, 

They wonder that I should be here. 
And think for a moment, perchance. Who is he? 

And note the plain garments I wear. 

I sit here and muse in this house of our God, 

And think of the long-vanished days. 
When they who are sleeping beneath the green sod 

Assembled here weekly to praise, — 
When Fletcher stood forth, an Apollos in might, 

Proclaiming with fervor the word. 
And multitudes turning from darkness to light, 

Confessed their once crucified Lord. 

I like not the ancient because it is old. 

Despising the things that are new, 
I value the good which the ages unfold. 

And love all that's holy and true; 
But Fancy, contrasting the Then and the Now, 

Contends for the old-fashioned ways, 
And old-time devotion, we all must allow, 

Was better than our stilted praise. 



166 GREAT VALLEY CHURCH. 

The people, though simple, were truthful and just, 

Religion was more than a name. 
The mantle of virtue trailed not in the dust, 

And folly aspired not to f ame. 
The country aped not the pert ways of the town, 

Submissive to Vanity's thrall. 
The rich were not up and the poor were not down, 

And Pride was disfavored by all. 

We're sadly devoid of the unction and grace 

That marked the disciples of old, 
Instead of the Spirit gross matter has place, 

And evil is rampant and bold. 
We worship by proxy, and tickets procure — 

Broad-guage — for the regions above, 
We doubt the old Book, and of nothing are sure. 

And selfishness banishes love. 

No longer, O Church, is the zealousness found 

That once in thy people appeared. 
Thy earnestness lies with thy dead under ground, 

By Satan no more thou art feared; 
The warning that once unto Sardis was sent 

Full well unto thee might be said: 
Be watchful, and strengthen, hold fast and repent, 

Thou livest, and yet thou art dead! 

O Church, from thy slumbers awake and arise! 

Christ's garments of beauty put on, 
Let holy commandments enlighten thine eyes. 

And days of rejoicing will dawn; 
Discard all traditions, and walk in the truth. 

The form of sound words holding fast. 
Renew, like the eagle, the strength of thy youth, 

And mount to the heavens at last! 

Treddyffrin, Pa. 



LINN^A. 167 



LINN^A. 

With trivial name or common-place 
Shall we thy presence greet? 

Thv June-like eyes and sunny face 
Demand a word that's meet. 

Of all we know what shall it be? 

One musical and good, 
To please thine ear in infancy 

And grace thy maidenhood. 

Linnsea may it be, my child. 

Reminding us of streams. 
And vernal woods, and nature wild, 

And hope's prophetic dreams. 

For thou art here in light and love, 

A fair, perennial flower, 
And brightest stars in Heaven above 

Smiled on thy natal hour. 



Igg MY BABY. 



MY BABY. 

This is my prayer, O Sweet, 

Repeated day by day: 
God grant thy little feet 

May never learn to stray. 

His ever constant care 

May He around thee throw, 

And guard from every snare. 
And save from every woe. 

And may the choice be thine 
Of unseen things above, 

Through power of truth divine 
And His attracting love. 

Thus will the better part 

Be with thee all life long, 

And Christ within thy heart 

Shall make thee wise and strong. 



